


Sundered, Kingless, and Bleeding

by cambia



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Companions Questline, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Dealing, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Drama, Graphic Violence, Grumpy Vilkas, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Jorrvaskr, Medium Burn, Much Backstory, Much Headcanon, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Second Chances, Skooma, Skyrim Main Quest, Slice of Life, Slow Pace, Stormcloaks, Swashbuckling Dragonslayers, Tattooed Pirate Dovahkiin, Tsundere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-01-17 06:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 54,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12359403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambia/pseuds/cambia
Summary: Brigida Summer-Blade thought she'd never return to Skyrim. But after nearly being executed for smuggling skooma across the border, she's given a second chance at life in her homeland. You know, if that whole Time Dragon Apocalypse Thing doesn't get in the way first.Follows Skyrim's Main Quest, Civil War and Companions Quest. Other Factions and Side Quests may be added. Expect Angsty Vilkas Shipping. Contains mature content.





	1. The World-Eater Returns

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This is my first fic on AO3. It starts off as a pretty straightforward retelling of the main questline, but I will eventually diverge from the canon story more. I love the TES universe and I have a lot of my own headcanons that I hope to explore here.
> 
> In my head, Skyrim is larger than it is in game. That means travel distances are longer, and towns and cities are bigger with more amenities. I also have a tendency to take the “corpse with a backstory” characters littered throughout the game and make them into real, living NPCs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Brigida Summer-Blade had crossed the Pale Pass fourteen times that summer with no trouble. Fourteen trips from Bruma County to Falkreath Hold. Fourteen loads of tariffed imports and moon sugar and pure refined skooma handed off to a Khajiit caravan outside of Helgen’s stone walls. Moving illegal goods over one of Tamriel’s most heavily patrolled borders would not have been her first choice if she’d had one. But when Brigida had defected from the Iliac Bay Corsairs a year prior and entered into the protection of the rival Elsweyr Syndicate, she’d understood that meant taking on unpleasantly risky jobs.

She realized she was in trouble as soon as she approached the gate and did not see the usual guard, an amicable Nord called Hadvar. Instead, a stern Colovian soldier greeted her and her pack-mule asking about merchant papers. Brigida tried to turn and run back to Bruma, but the Imperial grazed her arm with a poisoned arrow. The icy stiffness of paralysis venom spread across her body as she fell forward into the snow.

 

The executioner’s block was warm against Brigida’s face. Stone should be cool to the touch, but this one had an eerily animate heat to it. She hated that this would be the last thing she would learn about the world. This would be her resting thought.

The Imperial headsman raised his stained ax high above his shoulders.

Her vertebra burned in anticipation of a blade that would never come.

She heard the dragon before she saw it--pained screeching and the rhythmic beating of massive wings. The crowd of prisoners and soldiers scattered as the beast sprayed Helgen with flames. The headsman backed away from her and she reflexively rolled off the block.

For a moment time froze, and the beast made eye contact with her. It cried out, the deep booming of its shout igniting her veins. She felt her hands shake and her heart thump against her chest cavity.

A blond Stormcloak helped her to her feet and pulled her towards the keep. Brigida recognized him as one of the rebels that had been detained by the same Imperials who had arrested her. All around them, the dragon was bashing its wings into buildings, unleashing massive fireballs on the town, and shouting force and fury against its inhabitants. Thatched roofs turned into bonfires, filling the sky with thick black smoke.

The Stormcloak slammed and latched the Keep’s door behind them. He was tall and sturdy, blond hair down to his broad shoulders and eyes the same blue as the Stormcloak colors he wore.

“I’m Ralof of Riverwood,” he said with a polite nod.

“Brigida,” she replied cautiously.

“You’ll want to grab a sword,” he advised, nodding toward an Imperial weapon rack. He glanced over her raggedy prisoner’s clothes, her dirty bare feet. “And we’ll have to find some shoes for you at the very least, if not armor too. Though I can’t blame you if you don’t want to wear the cuirass of some Imperial bastard.”

She selected an iron shortsword from the rack, giving it a trial swing. “That was Ulfric Stormcloak, wasn’t it?” she asked.

Ralof cleared his throat. He was inspecting an iron warhammer thoughtfully. She continued, “when the Imperials were taking us to Helgen, he was in the cart with us. They bound and gagged him.”

“Because of his shout,” Ralof answered, finally. He turned to face her. He looked stern.

The thu’um. She thought of the foul black dragon that was likely still wrecking the town outside. Was it here for Ulfric?

“We’ll have to try to see if there’s a way out through the back,” he said, walking towards the hall at the other end of the room. “It’s our only chance to make it out of here alive.” Brigida nodded and followed Ralof deeper into the Keep.

 

Helgen Keep was mostly empty save for a handful of Imperials hiding in a dungeon. They did not hesitate to attack Ralof. A pair of legionnaires armed with hand axes and bucklers engaged him in close combat, while the third, a ranger armed with a long bow, backed into the corner. He drew his warhammer, blocking and deflecting the melee blows while Brigida sprinted after the archer, sword thrusting forward like a lance. Ralof clocked one of the Imperials in the temple and he fell to the ground. During that strike, the other legionnaire manage to land a blow on Ralof unarmored bicep. Brigida, having already impaled the archer, lunged across the dungeon. Ralof smacked the man in the chest with the pommel of his warhammer, and the Imperial staggered back towards Brigida who practically jumped on top of the man, grappling him, slitting his throat and then shoving the bewildered soldier back towards her Stormcloak ally. Ralof swung the warhammer with all his strength, aiming directly for his opponent’s forehead. His skull broke with a sickening crack and the legionnaire collapsed. Ralof shook the gore off his weapon, shuddering at what had been a particularly gruesome kill.

“Mind if I take this?” Brigida asked. She was holding the archer’s bow. An arrow had pierced her shoulder which was now bleeding, yet she remained composed. _She’s fought--and killed--before,_ he thought. The gash on his own arm was beginning to throb now that the skirmish was over.

“It’s yours,” he said. “You earned it. Do you have any healing magick?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I can make a flame big just enough to start up a hearthfire and that’s about it.”

“We should search their bodies, then,” he continued. “I think both of us could use a potion.”

Each of the Imperials had a small vial of a weak healing solution, along with a small number of gold coins the two of them could split. He opened his vial of potion, pouring a little bit of it over the wound. It stung, but at least the bleeding came to a stop. Ralof downed the rest. The grainy texture and bitter-sweet taste were familiar; the simple tincture of blue mountain flower and ground butterfly wings was used by most soldiers across northern Tamriel. Heat spread radially from his chest as his muscles began to loosen.

Brigida was cursing under her breath while slowly dribbling the potion onto her injured shoulder. With her tunic pulled sideways, Ralof could see she had several tattoos across her chest and onto her arms. Her ash-brown hair was in a disheveled and damp with sweat. “They use this shit in Daggerfall too,” she said, meeting his gaze, “but I swear it didn’t smell quite so foul.”

“Bretons are milk-drinkers,” Ralof said with a laugh. “I thought you were a real Nord.”

She smirked back at him. “I am, but I’ve been away from Skyrim for a long time.”

“Too long evidently,” he teased.

 

They emerged from a cavern north of Helgen a couple hours later. She’d found a knapsack on a dead mage, which was now filled with small but valuable loot. Arrows, daggers, coins, potions. Even a few books. Over her burlap prisoner’s garb, she wore a hodgepodge of various armor pieces stolen from corpses--a chainmail hauberk, hardened leather boots, a pair of fur gauntlets.

Both of them winced at the late afternoon sun. Helgen remained a smouldering ruin but there was no sign of the dragon. For the first time that day it occurred to Brigida that she wouldn’t be returning to Cyrodiil anytime soon.

The road in front of them led north, towards Falkreath, towards Riverwood, towards her mother’s farm. Ralof turned to her. “My sister lives in Riverwood. I need to go up there and warn them of the dragon,” he paused for a moment. “Come with me.”

“What? Really?” They were close to her family’s farm by Lake Ilinalta, but she had zero interest in trying to see them at this point. Or ever really. Heading straight north to Riverwood appealed to her.

“The town’s about a day’s walk from here, but it’s late enough in the afternoon that we’ll likely need to stop to camp tonight,” he said. “Look, you’re obviously competent with a blade. We’re safer as a pair than we would be alone.”

She nodded in agreement. “We’ll travel together then.”

They walked north on the worn Imperial road. Now that they were safely outside the Keep, Ralof began to speak. His unit had been ambushed by Imperials at Darkwater Crossing. Two of his compatriots had been killed in the struggle. “We thought they were taking us to the Imperial City to try Ulfric,” he said bitterly. “We didn’t realize Tullius was at Helgen and they simply needed an officer high-ranked enough to approve our execution.”

She didn’t want to tell him why they had captured her. She didn’t want to tell him that the Imperials had busted her for skooma smuggling.

“Why did you help me?” she asked him instead.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to. You should have just run straight for the Keep.”

“Terribly sorry for saving your life then,” he said sarcastically.

“No, that’s not what I--” she stammered, “I just don’t understand why me?”

He shrugged and paused to think. “You’re a Nord and the Imperials tried to execute you. You’re a Stormcloak in the making,” he said, smiling a little.

They set up camp near the Guardian Stones, within view of the lake. Ralof built a fire and gathered water while Brigida stalked for prey with her new long bow. She returned with a plump brown hare which Ralof promptly skinned and dressed.

 

“You still haven’t told me anything about yourself,” he said, rotating his skewer of rabbit meat over the flickering campfire.

She paused. She couldn’t tell him too much, but he deserved some explanation of who she was. “I grew up not too far from here, actually,” she said. “I’m Clan Summer-Blade.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Are you related to Ludo Summer-Blade?”

“How do you--That’s my brother’s name!”

“Well, your brother is a Stormcloak. A damn good one at that.”

“Ludo’s a Stormcloak? Actually, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“He’s wily,” Ralof smirked. “Head scout for the Stormcloaks in The Pale. Absolutely deadly with a bow. Did you not know?”

“I haven’t spoken to him or any of my family in nearly ten years,” she said cautiously. Ralof had the grace to not press any further.

He offered to take second watch, falling asleep rather quickly. He was truly a soldier, sleeping outside with no tent, no bedroll, and still in his armor. Hunched next to the fire, Brigida watched Masser rise over the lake and listened to Ralof’s steady breathing.

 

He woke her up as the sun was just beginning to peek over the mountains. He’d already snuffed out the fire and packed up the few things they had. The walk to Riverwood was only a couple more hours, and Ralof promised his sister would be able to fix them a meal.

They talked the whole way down about nothing in particular. Weather, food, how much they both hated the Imperial Legion. She asked him a little about Ludo. When she left all those years ago, Ludo was the only one she’d missed. Ralof recounted her brother’s trial to join the Stormcloaks. Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric’s right hand man, was unsure of the gawky southerner and sent Ludo to the northern shores of Skyrim to eliminate a particularly nasty ice wraith. When Ludo didn’t return for two days, Ralof was sure the lad had perished. But on the third day, he returned draped in snow bear pelts with a pair of white-blue fangs to present to the Jarl.

The sky was overcast by the time they reached Riverwood, a thin fog enveloping the town. Ralof led her to a busy mill at the riverbank. A tall blonde woman was directing two workers who were loading lumber onto the sawmill. “Oy!” Ralof called out to her, beaming widely.

The woman turned and immediately ran towards him, greeting him with a hug. “By Mara, what are you doing here?” she demanded, cusping his square jaw in her calloused hands. Judging by her face, she had to be his sister.

“It’s a long story, Gerdur. Let’s go sit down and I’ll tell you everything.”

The blonde woman called over her husband Hod and led them all a few yards away so they were out of earshot of the mill workers. Brigida perched herself on a large stump. Ralof leaned against a birch and told his sister about Darkwater Crossing and about Helgen and the dragon.

 

Gerdur insisted they stay with her that evening, despite the obvious risks of harboring her fugitive Stormcloak brother and his rather shifty companion. Before returning to the mill, she served them brown bread and soup and ale. Brigida had missed very little about Skyrim, but after nearly a decade away she had come to appreciate the comfort of Nord hospitality. Ralof wanted to wash up and take a nap, and Brigida wanted to do some trading in town, so she let him have his privacy and left to explore Riverwood.

Brigida went to the town trader first. The small-town pawnshop smelled of dried herbs and worn fabric. Dust glittered the light in the air. The shopkeep gesticulated and bickered with his sister.

“No adventures, no theatrics, and no thief chasing,” he hissed at the girl. His demeanor immediately shifted as he noticed Brigida, still standing near the door. “Sorry about that,” he said genially, waving Brigida towards the counter. “We had a bit of a… break in. But we still have plenty to sell! The robbers only took one thing. An ornament. Solid gold. In the shape of a dragon’s claw.”

“It was a family heirloom,” the sister interrupted. “We’re pretty sure the thief ran off to join his gang up at Bleak Falls Barrow, but my brother won’t let me go after them.”

Brigida sensed an opportunity. “Is there… a reward for retrieving this claw?”

He gave her an appraising look. “I've got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It's yours if you bring my claw back.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, nodding slowly as she began to open her pack. Brigida bartered some of the supplies she found back in Helgen for a burlap travelling cloak and small leather tent. She would have to leave Riverwood tomorrow morning at the latest; warmth and shelter might become essential as she travelled further north.

She then went to the inn to buy a bottle of mead. It would make for a nice gift to Hod and Gerdur in exchange for their hospitality. It was a small, one-story tavern, stuffily warm and bathed in dim hearth light. A sandy-haired Breton woman leaned against the bar counter at the back of the room. Brigida could feel the woman’s eyes observing her--no, judging her--as she walked through the inn.

“You must be a traveller. What can I get for you?” she asked.

“A large bottle of mead.”

“Right away.” She selected a bottle of Honningbrew from the shelf and placed it on the counter. “So, what brings you to Riverwood?”

“I came from Helgen,” Brigida admitted.

“Helgen? Did you--” the Breton woman lowered her voice as she shifted from pleasantly nosy innkeeper to a sharper, more investigatory tone. “You saw the dragon, didn’t you?”

Brigida nodded involuntarily.

“What did it look like?” the woman asked. Her glasz eyes narrowed in intense focus.

Brigida tried to open her mouth to speak but the words were slow to come. “Black and... with a kind of red glow. Red eyes. Big, massive really, fire-breathing thing. The fire was hot enough to--you know what? I’m sorry I have to go.”

The Breton woman was impassive. The two stood in silence for a moment, and Brigida couldn’t bring herself to meet the other woman’s gaze. Her limbs went leaden and her guts lurched as her breath turned hot and sour. She slammed a handful of septims on the counter while swiping the mead bottle with her other hand, turned on her heel, and ran from the tavern.

  



	2. The Wolf of Whiterun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brigida heads to Whiterun to deliver a message to the Jarl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Whiterun stood tall in a vast golden plain. The sunrise painted the eastern walls of the city in amber light.

Brigida had promised Gerdur and Ralof she’d deliver a message warning Jarl Balgruuf about the dragon at Helgen. “Thank you,” Ralof had said, before leaving for Windhelm himself “you’re very kind.”

“I’m not,” she’d laughed. “But you and your kin have been good to me and I repay my debts.”

She had made it about three quarters the way to Whiterun the day before. The city was now in sight. Most of the her trek would take her through the family-owned farms that surrounded Skyrim’s central city.

As she rounded a bluff, she saw a giant swinging his club indiscriminately around a wheat field. Two armored warriors were attempting to fight the thing up close, while a third was firing arrows at him from a distance. Brigida ran forward, drawing her own bow. She fired at the giant while creeping toward the fight, pelting its side with arrows. One the warriors, a tall Nord, felled the creature with a greatsword to the gut. The giant fell forward, nearly crushing the man. He ran his large hand through his black-brown hair and laughed amiably.

All three fighters turned to Brigida and the archer began to approach her. She was a pretty, redhead Nord dressed in leather and steel armor crafted in an ancient style. “You’re not a half-bad shot,” she said. “You could make for a decent shield-sister.”

“Shield-sister?”

She took another step forward, introducing herself. “Aela the Huntress of the Companions of Jorrvaskr. This is Ria,” she said, gesturing to the third Companion, a shorter Imperial woman. “And this lummox is Farkas.”

The big Nord man rolled his eyes at Aela before waving at Brigida.

“Companions, eh? Well, that’s terribly flattering,” Brigida said. Like any Nord, she had grown up hearing tales about the glories of the warriors of Jorrvaskr.  “I’m Brigida Summer-Blade. I’m just here to deliver a message to the Jarl, though. I’m not exactly Companion material.”

Aela grinned knowingly and shook her head. “Stop by Jorrvaskr and let Kodlak Whitemane be the judge of that.”

Brigida thanked Aela and the Companions and left them to loot the giant’s corpse. She marched onward down the Imperial road. The White River shimmered in the mid-morning sun. Patches of lavender and yellow mountain flower dotted the land. Whiterun’s Keep, Dragonsreach, loomed above her. She had been there once as a child, for some feast her mother had dragged her to.

She approached the gates of the city. The two Whiterun guards stiffened in posture as she drew closer. “Halt!” one of the guards called out, stepping forward to meet her. “City’s closed with the dragon’s about. Official business only.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. I come from Helgen with news about the Dragon attack. I need to speak with the Jarl.”

The guard paused for a moment and looked to his compatriot, who nodded slowly. “Come on in, then. The Jarl is up at Dragonsreach.”

 

Whiterun bustled with commerce. Walking through the Plains District, she saw shops of all kinds and a busy outdoor marketplace. Children ran through the street playing tag while their parents haggled over fresh produce and fine imports.

She made her way up to the nicer part of town. The Gildergreen, Kyne’s gift to Whiterun, looked rather brown and droopy. To her right was the upturned Atmoran ship that was the mead hall Jorrvaskr. She was surprised the shrine of Talos remained standing. A robed man stood in front of the statue, shouting his reverence for the ninth divine.

Winds whipped around her as she climbed the steps up to Dragonsreach. The sky was cloudless and crisp. Miles of amber and gold surrounded the city. Whiterun's reputation as the agrarian heart of Skyrim was well-deserved.

In the great hall of the Keep, she could see the Jarl debating with his steward. Balgruuf was a middle-aged man, but still lean and muscular. His honey-blond hair was tied back behind his head. As she walked up the stairs, a Dunmer woman in leather armor approached her, weapon drawn. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” she asked. “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.”

“I have news from Helgen. About the dragon attack.”

“Helgen? No wonder the guards let you in,” she muttered, sheathing her sword. “Come on, the Jarl will want to speak with you personally.” The Dunmer led Brigida through the great hall. A large fire pit smoldered in the middle of the room surrounded on each side by two long tables heavy with fruit and meats and wine. Whiterun’s prosperity was fully on display.

“My Jarl,” the Dunmer said once they had reached Balgruuf’s throne, “this traveler was at Helgen. She brings news of dragons.”

“By Ysmir, you were right, Irileth,” the Jarl said to the elf. He turned to Brigida, “So you were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with you own eyes?”

Brigida nodded. “I did. It destroyed Helgen. Last I saw, it was heading north. I’m here on behalf of the people of Riverwood who now request your protection.”

“We must send troops to Riverwood at once,” Irileth said.

The Jarl’s steward, a stout Colovian man who was finely dressed but wore a rather sour expression, huffed in objection. “The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation--”

“The Jarl of Falkreath is a prick,” Balgruuf interrupted. “And I’ll not stand idly by as a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

“Yes, my Jarl.”

Balgruuf now turned his gaze back to Brigida. “Well done. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You’ve done Whiterun a service, and I won’t forget it.” The Jarl produced a coinpurse which he handed to Brigida. “A token of my esteem.”

She accepted his gift, grinning at its heft. “Thank you, Jarl,” she said with a small bow before leaving the Keep and returning to the city below.

 

 

Farkas stacked the severed giant’s toes neatly on his twin brother’s bed, inches from his sleeping face. The fungal stench woke Vilkas abruptly from his late morning slumber.

“Ah!” Vilkas cried out and recoiled in disgust. Farkas snickered and his brother threw a pillow at his face. “Damn you, Farkas.”

“Got it this morning. Thing was attacking old man Pelagius’ farm.”

“You killed a giant this morning?” Vilkas asked, trying not to sound impressed. He had moved to the other end of his bad.

“I had help. Aela and Ria and some traveller joined in too. I think she was a courier. Delivering some message to the Jarl.” Farkas gathered the giant’s toes and began to put them back into the canvas sack he’d been carrying them in.

“A courier helped you fell a giant. I’ve really got to start getting up earlier.” Vilkas rubbed at his temples. He hadn’t slept well in months but also didn’t want to worry Farkas about it.

“Oy, Ice-Brain. Your brother awake?” he could hear Njada, the steel-tongued platinum-haired Eastmarcher, asking from the hall.

“Ugh, what does she want?” Vilkas groaned.

“I don’t want anything,” she hissed, ducking her head into his bedroom. “Kodlak wanted to speak with you.”

Vilkas leapt out of bed and scrambled over to his wardrobe as Njada and Farkas backed into the hallway. Vilkas pulled on a pair of trousers and exchanged his sleeping shirt for a clean tunic. He splashed a bit of water on his face and ran his wet hand through his messy dark hair.

Kodlak was in his office, sitting at his desk pouring over a ledger. Vilkas rapped his knuckle on the open door.

“Morning, Harbinger.”

“Good afternoon, boy,” Kodlak said in a droll tone. “Come sit.”

Vilkas settled in the chair next to the Harbinger’s. Kodlak was smiling but his eyes looked troubled.

“There was another werewolf attack this week, boy,” Kodlak said in a low voice.

“That’s the third one this summer. Who was it?”

“The victim? A merchant from Markarth en route to Solitude. Owed a lot of debts and had plenty of enemies.”

“But was it Arnbjorn?” Vilkas asked.

“We can’t know for sure, but I’d bet on it.”

Vilkas rubbed his forehead with both palms. “He’s going to get us all killed.”

Kodlak sighed sympathetically. He placed a hand on Vilkas’s shoulder. “You’re still not sleeping well, boy?”

Vilkas nodded. “It’s been worse lately. The longer I go without transforming, the harder it gets.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Kodlak said.

“I know,” Vilkas sighed. “I know. But I still hear the call of the blood,” he muttered.

“We all do,” Kodlak insisted. “It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome.”

Vilkas gave a weak smile. He leaned to the side looking down the hallway of Jorrvaskr’s sleeping quarters. Aela was marching towards the Harbinger’s office with a stranger in tow.

She was Nord woman in her mid-twenties, athletically built and just a hair taller than Aela. Her mousy brown hair was tied back in a long braid that fell over her left shoulder. Her skin was fair but dotted with light brown freckles. She had soft, rounded facial features save for her dark, straight brows and her elongated hazel-gold eyes. She wore a peasant kirtle under her mismatched armor pieces and roughspun cloak on top of that. A plain iron short sword hung off her hip; a long bow was on her back.

“Harbinger,” Aela said, “this is that new recruit I was telling you about.”

“Is that so?” Kodlak asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the young woman. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Brigida Summer-Blade?” she replied. Her eyes were cast downward and she sounded uncertain. Vilkas was unimpressed. Joining the Companions was an honor for those bold enough to earn it. This Brigida woman looked like she didn’t even want to be here.

“Summer-Blade, eh?” Kodlak leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, regarding the new recruit for moment. “Hm. Yes. She has a certain strength of spirit,” he said, looking at Aela who nodded enthusiastically.

Vilkas scoffed. “Harbinger, you’re not possibly thinking of accepting her?”

“Excuse me?” Brigida interrupted. She was now staring daggers at Vilkas.

“Last time I checked, Vilkas,” the Harbinger said, “we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with fire in their hearts.” He looked back at Brigida and asked, “how are you in a battle, girl?”

“I can handle myself,” she said, still glaring at Vilkas. He rolled his eyes.

“That may be so,” Kodlak said. “Vilkas here will test your arm.” Vilkas groaned and Kodlak gave him a stern look. “Take her out to the yard and see what she can do.”

 

Brigida followed Vilkas to the training grounds behind Jorrvaskr. With light eyes and dark hair, Vilkas resembled his twin in coloring, though his features were sharper, his muscles leaner and he was roughly average height for a Nord male while Farkas was exceptionally tall. He was also aloof and rude, unlike Farkas who was warm and genial.

He selected a steel greatsword from a rack. Farkas, Njada and Aela were sitting on the terrace watching. Aela gave Brigida an excited grin as she walked towards Vilkas.

“The old man said to take a look at you arm,” he said as she took her place opposite him. “Just take a few swings so I can see your form, but give me your best. Don’t worry, I can take it.”

He shifted into a fighting stance, his greatsword at an angle across his chest. Brigida drew her sword. He easily parried her strikes, and she was surprised at how agile he was with heavy armor and a two-handed weapon. After meeting blades for a fourth time, she feinted to the left. Extending her sword arm, she gently touched his arm with her blade.

“Shouldn’ta done that, whelp,” Vilkas snarled. He was now swinging his greatsword at her and she was on the defensive. Brigida blocked his first few hits, but the force of his arm reverberated up her wrist and into her elbow. Her muscles strained at holding him back. He knocked her sword arm sideways and she staggered. Vilkas tapped the front of her chainmail shirt with the tip of his blade.

“Sloppy technique,” he said, drawing back his greatsword and resting it on his shoulder. His breathing was slightly quicker than normal, but other than that he seemed unperturbed.  “But decent intuition. You’ve fought before, I can tell, but you haven’t had much formal training. And you’re a little underhanded for my taste, but you hit hard and you hit fast.”

She didn’t respond, privately cursing him for being right.

“Well, you just might make it. But for now you’re still a whelp to us, new blood. And you’ll do what we tell you,” Vilkas said, now holding his blade towards Brigida, hilt-first. “Take my sword up to Eorlund and have it sharpened.”

She scoffed at him, but grabbed the handle of the weapon anyway. “And be careful,” he said. “It’s probably worth more than you are.”

 

Aela stormed down the terrace steps. “Oy, dickhead! You’re not supposed attack the whelps during their trial.”

“She flanked me, Aela,” Vilkas said. “It’s not like I hurt her. If she wants to be a Companion, she’s got to learn some respect.”

“So how’d she do?” Farkas asked.

Vilkas shrugged. “She’s definitely got potential,” he said. “Bad attitude, though.”

“You only think she has a bad attitude because you’ve been acting like an ass since the moment she got here,” Aela said.

Njada was giggling. “Vilkas, you have no right say anyone has a bad attitude. You are the personification of a bad attitude.”

He threw his hands up in frustration. “Whatever. I’ve said my piece. Tell her she’s in if she wants to be,” he said and stomped back into the mead hall.

“Is he always like that?” Brigida asked, approaching the three companions on the terrace. She was now holding a small buckler.

“No,” Njada said, “sometimes he’s worse.”

“He’s not a bad guy,” Aela shrugged. “Just kind of a hothead.”

Brigida held out the small wooden shield to Aela. “Eorlund asked me to bring this to you.”

Aela eagerly accepted the buckler. “Thanks, whelp. Ice-Brain, show the new blood to her sleeping quarters.”

Farkas nodded. “Come on, follow me,” he said, opening the door for Brigida back into Jorrvaskr.

 


	3. The Jarl's Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jarl hires Vilkas and Brigida to complete a contract. Plus an update on the Stormcloaks.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The next morning Brigida visited Whiterun’s market to buy some much needed supplies with the gold from Jarl Balgruuf. Fresh linens and wool stockings, a wax candle and a waterskin. She returned to Jorrvaskr around midday with her coinpurse noticeably lighter. Most of the Companions were gathered in the hall for lunch. They were talking, arguing and laughing in equal measure over warm bread and flagons of ale. Brigida grinned to herself as she walked towards the stairway down to the sleeping quarters. 

She stashed her new purchases in the chest at the foot of the her bed in the whelp room.

When she returned to the main hall, Jarl Balgruuf’s steward was in hushed conversation with Kodlak. Brigida sat in the nearest available space at the table, next to the veteran warrior Skjor.

“What’s old Avenicci doing here?” Skjor muttered to Aela, who was sitting on his other side.

“Probably trying to hire someone for a contract.”

“No thanks,” Skjor smirked. “The Jarl pays shit. Remember that, whelp.”

“Huh?” Brigida said, not expecting Skjor to address her.

“When you make it into the Circle and can pick your own jobs. The Jarl pays shit.”

“Why doesn’t he pay well?” she asked. “I’ve been to Dragonsreach, and he didn’t exactly seem short on coin.”

“Kodlak charges him less because wants to preserve a good relationship with the Jarl, and I can’t fault him for that. But still, I can pass on those jobs. And I do.”

Across the room, Avenicci had clearly worked out a deal because he bowed to the Harbinger and promptly exited Jorrvaskr. After the door closed, Kodlak stood up, and the Companions fell silent.

“The Jarl has asked for our aid in the retrieval of an artifact in Bleak Falls Barrow,” he said.

“Bleak Falls Barrow?” Brigida asked. “I met a merchant in Riverwood who was also looking for something there. Family heirloom or something.”

“Was this merchant looking for a stone tablet depicting dragons?” the Harbinger asked.

“No. A golden claw. He said bandits stole it and took it to the barrow. Perhaps I could be involved in this mission,” she said hopefully. The Jarl might pay shit, but the combination of his contract plus the reward from the Colovian shopkeep down in Riverwood might make the job worthwhile.

“Well, it is custom here at Jorrvaskr to give Companions first choice over jobs they find for themselves. But, you are a still a whelp and an unproven one at that. And the Jarl actually paid enough to send two of you this time,” Kodlak chuckled for a moment and then collected himself. “Relic retrieval falls under your domain, Vilkas.”

Vilkas looked at Brigida skeptically from across the room. “Are you assigning this me?”

“If you’re not interested--”

“No, I’ll do it,” Vilkas said. “But whelp, if you’re serious about going then we better do some training this afternoon.”

She met eyes with him over the table, “Fine, I can do that.”

 

“You can’t just fight with a single one-handed sword and nothing else,” Vilkas said.

Skjor smirked but tried to remain focused on his archery practice. Training whelps hadn’t been his job in quite a long time.

“And why not?” Brigida challenged. “I’ve been doing it for years just fine.”

“What are you even using your left arm for? It’s just hanging out there doing nothing.”

“It’s balancing me,” she insisted. She did a few mock swings with her right arm, her left mirroring its movements. Skjor nocked another arrow on his bow.

Vilkas groaned. “Look, whelp, you can either pick up a shield or get yourself a proper sword like me.” He gestured to the two-handed blade on his back. Skjor pulled back his arrow.

“I don't think so. I hate two-handers and shields just slow me down.” 

Skjor released the arrow and watched it fly toward the target. Not bad, though he was no Aela. “Parrying dagger,” he yelled.

“What?” both Vilkas and Brigida turned to look at him.

“Get the girl a damn parrying dagger, Vilkas. Come on,” Skjor said, walking over to a rack of training weapons. He hung up the bow he’d be shooting and selected a thick, sturdy dagger which held up for both to see. Skjor walked towards Brigida and put the dagger in her off-hand. “Now,” Skjor said, “you can do three things with a blade like this. You can parry,” he held the dagger in a blocking position. “You can stab,” he thrust his left arm forward. “And you can dual strike,” Skjor swiped both his left and right arms at the same time in perfect parallel lines.

Brigida mimicked those three basic moves. “I like it,” she smiled. “It feels efficient.”

“It’s kind of an old fashioned style. Most dual wielders these days favor those damned curved swords--”

“Scimitars,” Brigida smirked. “They’re all over the the Iliac Bay. They call them shamshir in Sentinel.”

“They’re flashy,” Skjor said. “But only the truly ambidextrous can ever really master that style. If you got even a slight inclination toward one side or the other, you’re better off with a sword and dagger.”

“Thank you, Skjor,” Brigida said.

“Yes, thank you,” Vilkas said, nodding.

“Bahh,” Skjor waved his arm at them and turned around. “You brats are lucky to have me, you know that right?”

“We know,” the two Companions replied in unison.

 

Windhelm was a welcome sight after four days of travel on foot. Ralof walked the cobblestone path that led to the city, crisp sea winds biting his face.  The Stormcloak guards greeted him by name as they opened the gates for him. Once inside the city walls, Ralof went straight to the Palace of the Kings. He had to know that Ulfric yet lived. 

To his relief, the true High King of Skyrim sat upon his throne, looking relatively unscathed following the incident at Helgen. Ralof marched confidently through the hall.

“Ralof Storm-Hammer, how does that sound?” Ulfric called out.

“An honor-name, my Jarl?”

“You were the only one from my personal guard to survive both Darkwater Crossing and Helgen. Such resilience is exactly what the Stormcloaks need more of.”

Ralof beamed. “Thank you, sir,” he said with a deep bow.

Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric’s housecarl and second-in-command had emerged from the war room. He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Ralof, we’re thrilled that you’ve returned. And I know you want to get some rest after your journey,” he said, “but first we need a report on what you saw at Helgen. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” he nodded. The three men sat around one of the long tables in the great hall, and Ralof recounted his escape through Helgen Keep and back to Riverwood.

“I escaped with another prisoner. A Nord woman captured by the Imperials. She said she was Ludo Summer-Blade’s sister.”

“We’ll have to let Summer-Blade know,” Galmar noted.

“I told her to join up with us. She’s a decent fighter. Must run in the family.”

“Good man,” Ulfric said, smiling at Ralof.

“Can you provide any identifying information about this person?” Galmar asked.

“Nord female. About twenty-five, I’d guess. Light brown hair, hazel eyes. Tattoos on her arms. She was in the cart with us, my Jarl,” Ralof looked at Ulfric.

“Yes, I think I remember her.”

“Said her name was Brigida Summer-Blade," Ralof continued. "Born in Falkreath. When I asked about Ludo, she said he was her brother.”

“Do we know why she was captured by the Imperials?” Galmar asked.

“I didn’t ask,” Ralof muttered. “It seemed inappropriate.”

“Those Imperial bastards are always arresting innocent Nords--” Ulfric scowled.

“And some of the criminals they capture really are criminals,” Galmar interrupted.

Ulfric sighed. “If she tries to join the Stormcloaks, we can worry about that later. Otherwise, it’s really not our problem unless she causes trouble in one my holds.”

“For what it’s worth,” Ralof said, “she behaved honorably around me. She was pretty vicious in combat, but she had plenty of opportunity to rob me and my sister’s family and never did.”

“Thank you, Ralof,” Galmar said. “I think we have enough information for the time being. Go get some rest. You’ve done well.”

Ralof thanked the Jarl and his housecarl and bowed to them.

 

Before she turned in for bed, Vilkas warned her that she was likely going to have to wake him up the next morning. Exhausted from training, Brigida slept better that night than she had since Helgen. At dawn, she was wide awake as she dressed by candlelight in furs and studded hide borrowed from the Jorrvaskr armory. 

Once she was completely ready, she walked down the hallway to Vilkas’ room. Brigida knocked gently on the door, then more loudly after she received no response. Behind her, Farkas stuck his head out of his own bedroom. “Oh, that’ll never work. You have to actually go in there to get him up,” he said.

“Go into his room?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not like he sleeps naked or anything. Well, most of the time.” He opened the door, and the light from the hall revealed Vilkas heavily asleep and sprawled across his bed. Farkas walked across the room and shook his twin by the shoulder. “Get up, brother. The whelp’s here for you.”

Vilkas groaned and rolled over.

“Vilkas?” Brigida asked. “You told me to wake you up when I was ready to go to the barrow?”

“I know,” Vilkas grumbled. He pushed himself upright and yawned. “Alright, you two. Get out so I can get dressed.”

They gave Vilkas his privacy and walked back across the hall.

“So, any other tips for dealing with your brother?” Brigida asked once they had returned to Farkas’ room.

“Well, don’t let him drink too much. He’s really mean when he’s hungover.”

“Even more than usual?”

Farkas laughed. “He’s okay. You’ll be fine.”

Vilkas walked in soon after, fully dressed in his steel wolf armor. He wore a long black cloak and his steel greatsword hung off his back. Brigida had her long bow and her two blades. They said goodbye to Farkas who seemed to be returning to bed for a few more hours of sleep.

Outside Jorrvaskr, a blood-orange sun was low in the sky. Vilkas led Brigida to the stables just beyond Whiterun’s walls. The Companions stabled a couple horses here that Circle members could reserve as needed. He led a grey mare to her, “this one’s yours. We’re gonna ride them to the foot of the mountain to save us some daylight. But once we get close, we’ll let the horses go back, alright? It’ll be an easier climb on foot. And don’t worry about these girls," he patted the mare gently, "they’re trained to return to the stable on their own.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said and mounted her horse.

 

Of Ysla Summer-Blade’s four children, only Ludo had inherited her so-called Terenti eyes. The descendents of Lady Mia Terentina of Bravil--herself rumored to be the progeny of the Hero of Kvatch and any number of increasingly improbable sires--often had large, doe-brown eyes with a propensity towards farsightedness. Those eyes had made him a lousy scribe but a damn fine shot. 

It also meant he was the first to notice Commander Frorkmar Banner-Torn and his retinue marching toward Fort Dunstad. Ludo ran down the stairs of the watchtower into Fort’s courtyard. One of his reports leaned against the foot of the tower, picking at the fletching on an iron-tipped arrow. “Take the watch for me, scout,” he said to the younger Stormcloak, “Commander Banner-Torn’s heading up here right now.”

Fort Dunstad’s other ranked officers had now begun to congregate near the gates. Banner-Torn was hands-off when it came to day-to-day operations and seldom came to the Fort unannounced. Ludo anticipated the commander might address the rumor circulating among the soldiers that a dragon had attacked Helgen.

The commander and his party stabled their horses and he summoned the officers into the Keep for a meeting. All the various divisions of the fort were represented--infantry and cavalry, artillery and auxiliary, the quartermaster and the head healer. Ludo led The Pale’s scouts, archers and rangers. Commander Banner-Torn took his seat at the head of the table, flanked by his housecarl on one side and a clerk on the other.

“I have some bad news and some good news,” the Commander announced in his deep baritone. “Some of you may have heard of a dragon attack in Falkreath Hold. Unfortunately, these rumors have been confirmed by multiple reliable sources to be true. The dragon destroyed the town of Helgen and there were few survivors. My condolences to any who had kin who died in this attack,” he said solemnly.

“Some may have also heard that Jarl Ulfric and his personal guard were caught up in this attack,” the commander added. “That has also been confirmed to be true--” he was briefly cut off by a few gasps from some of the officers, but raised his voice and continued on, “but Jarl Ulfric survived the attack and has safely returned to Windhelm.”

A sigh of relief was heard around the table. “Two Stormcloaks lost their lives in Helgen and we regret this loss deeply,” the commander said. “However, we have also received a report this morning that Ralof Leifson of Riverwood did survive the attack and has resumed his post. And, this might interest you, Summer-Blade,” Banner-Torn looked over at Ludo and his clerk handed him a dossier. “Ralof reported escaping the attack with a woman who claimed to be your sister.”

“Huh?” Ludo asked. “Martina? She was in Helgen?”

“Um, no. The report said her name was Brigida Summer-Blade,” the commander replied, looking at the dossier which he then passed down to Ludo.

“Britta,” Ludo whispered. “Thank you, sir,” he said in a louder voice, as the report reached his hands. There, in Galmar Stone-Fist’s surprisingly neat script, was a description of his sister. Not his elder sister Martina, a priestess of Arkay who lived in Falkreath. This was his younger sister, Brigida, called Britta by her family, who had run away from home as a teenager and hadn’t been seen in nearly a decade. Ludo swallowed hard and tried to hide his shock and confusion from the other warriors in the room. He wanted to listen to the rest of the meeting, but thoughts turned to questions about Britta’s sudden appearance after so many years. In his mind, he was already drafting the letters he knew he would have to send to his mother and older siblings that evening.


	4. The Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vilkas and Brigida explore Bleak Falls Barrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> CW: violence, spiders

Vilkas and Brigida were well above the treeline when the barrow came into sight. The air was thin and icy, and their boots crunched against the perennial snow. Massive stone arches descended from the peak of the mountain. A long, broad stairway led up to the barrow’s entrance. Vilkas placed a hand on Brigida’s arm and turned to her.

“You said there were bandits up there?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “that’s what the shopkeep told me.”

“If they attack us, and they probably will, stick close to me. I’ll take them from the front. Try to flank them like when we were practicing. Should they try to flee, let them, but if they want a fight, they’ll get one.”

“Can we loot them?” she asked hopefully.

“Ha! I like the way you think, whelp. We split any loot fifty-fifty, okay?”

“That’s fair.”

Vilkas led the way up the stairs, Brigida two paces behind him. They were about a third of the way there when an arrow clipped off of Vilkas’ armor. He increased his pace and began to move in a diagonal pattern. Arrows were now coming from both directions. The whelp had fanned out from him and she was firing back at the two archers at the top of the steps. Two arrows clanged off his armor, but a third managed to pierce through, nicking his skin. Once he was within reach, Vilkas lanced the archer on the left with his greatsword, easily cutting through the cheap leather armor, driving the blade into his opponent’s abdomen. The other bandit backed up, attempting switch out his bow for the axe at his hip, but Brigida was steadily marching up the stairs, shooting at him all the while. He collapsed forward, his back full of arrows. Vilkas drew his blade and gave the now dying bandit a quicker death. Blood pooled into the snow.

Brigida approached the top of the stairs, and Vilkas gave her a warm smile.

“Well done, whelp. You held your own.”

“See? I’m not completely useless.” She approached the body of the bandit that she’d shot at, placed her boot on his lower back and began to pull out the arrows. 

“I can see why Aela was so pushy about you joining.”

Brigida laughed dryly while sliding a silver ring off the bandit’s finger. “She was certainly persistent.”

“You can walk and shoot at the same time,” he said. “Back when Aela still entertained the fiction that she might train me to be an archer, she always told me I was exceptionally bad at that. Too loud, too slow.”

“My mother trained me.” She was now searching the bandit’s pockets. “You can never look down. Not at your feet. Not at your hands when you nock another arrow. You are always looking forward and just, I don’t know, trusting that your feet will find their way.”

 

They finished looting and finally opened the doors to Bleak Falls. A tomb built into the side of a mountain, the atrium of the barrow was a great open space. A small campfire burned at the other end of the room; a silhouetted figure stood in front of the flames. Unlike the bandits in front of the barrow, this one did not attack but rather fled.

Brigida and Vilkas shared a look, and then began running after the thief at full speed. They chased him through a winding, decrepit tunnel. The stone ground was wet and mossy and the two Nords struggled to keep up with their quarry. They had lost track of him for a while when they stumbled into an open chamber, adorned with spiderwebs. Hillocks of spider egg sacs nestled in the corners. At the other end of the room, their prey, the Dunmer thief, was bound in webs and hanging off the wall. The bandit began to thrash and cry out for help.

Vilkas drew his greatsword and approached the elf. A skittering sound came from above. He heard the whelp call his name and looked up to see the rapidly descending form of a giant frostbite spider. He dove forward as the beast dropped down. The spider had landed facing the whelp, while Vilkas and the thief were behind it. He steadied his feet before stabbing his blade deep into the spider’s backside. Using all the strength in his body, Vilkas turned the sword as the spider gave out a sickening yelp. The blade was covered in a foul ooze when he withdrew it. He could hear the whelp shouting from the beast’s other end as he drove his sword in a second time.

His greatsword was nearly jerked away from him as the spider began to stumbled from side to side. Vilkas slashed at the wounded creature’s legs until at last it fell and did not get back up. His face was beaded with sweat, his armor speckled with insect viscera. He looked around the slain beast’s corpse to see the whelp on the ground, partially crushed under the spider’s face, her sword plunged stubbornly into its forehead.

Vilkas rushed to her side, lifting up the head of the spider so she could shuffle her legs out from underneath it. She remained on the floor as he pulled her sword from its brain. Her armor was ripped and she had a large bite wound on her arm. Her face was white and she looked both nauseous and frightened. Vilkas crouched down next to her and rummaged through his leather pack.

“Hey, when are you gonna cut me down?” the Dunmer thief called out from across the room.

“Fuck off!” Vilkas yelled as he pulled two vials of potion, one for curing poison and one for healing. “You went and got yourself bit, whelp,” he said softly, handing her the poison cure. “Drink this one first,” he added.

“I’m so cold, Vilkas,” she said.

“That’s the frostbite vemon,” he said. “Just drink that antidote and you’re going to be okay. I promise.” He’d detached the layer of studded fur armor off her injured arm and was now cleaning the bite wound with a healing potion. She coughed as she drank the potion; he knew from experience it had a sharp, peppery flavor. The color returned to her face as he wrapped a bandage around her arm.

Vilkas stood up and said, “wait right there.” He crossed the room back to the thief who was still hanging in a spider web.

“What shall we do with this one?” he asked drawing his greatsword.

“Cut me down already!” the Dunmer yelled.

“I’ll cut you down if you hand over the golden claw,” Vilkas replied as he paced in front of the elf.

“I can’t get to the claw right now, you’ll have to cut me down first--”

“How convenient,” Brigida interrupted. She was now sitting upright.

“It’s true!” the elf insisted.

Vilkas sighed and ran the edge of his sword through the iridescent webbing around the thief. The elf fell out of the web and landed on his feet. He turned on his heels like he was trying to run away, but Vilkas grappled him before he could even leave the room.

“Well, that was a mistake,” Vilkas said, now holding the dark elf under his steel plated forearm.

“Oh, just slit his throat already and be done with it,” Brigida said.

The elven thief twitched. “Please, no. I’m very sorry. I’ll hand over the claw right away.” He fumbled with the canvas bag hanging across his form, eventually producing a gold ornament shaped like a dragon’s claw and adorned with ancient runes.

Brigida stood up and approached the Vilkas and the Dunmer her dagger drawn in her uninjured left arm. “No, no, friend. The claw is what you promised to give us in exchange for saving your sorry ass from becoming spider food. You ruined that deal when you tried to run away,” she held her blade up to his neck. “So, elf. Tell us why we shouldn’t kill you right now?”

“Please,” he begged. “I’ll tell you how the claw works.”

With her right hand, she snatched the claw from his trembling fingers. “Go on.”

“If you go through the catacombs, you’ll find a great door which leads to the inner burial chamber. The claw is the key for that door, and the runes are the combination to its lock.”

Vilkas and Brigida locked eyes. The Dragonstone could very well be in that burial chamber. Brigida lowered her blade as Vilkas released his hold on the thief. “Leave now,” he said through clenched teeth. “And don’t even think of coming back here.”

The Dunmer said nothing but merely nodded and sprinted out of the room in the direction of the barrow’s entrance. Both Nords held their breath as they watched him disappear from sight.

“I thought you were really going to kill him,” Vilkas said.

“Me too,” Brigida quipped.

“How’s that arm?” he asked.

“Sore but functional. The venom’s mostly worn off at least.”

“Well, the catacombs will likely have some draugr in them. They look nasty but they go down easy. We can rest a bit longer if you need--”

“No, let’s keep going. I’m alright,” she said.

 

The draugr were indeed comparatively easy to take down. Their decaying, ancient flesh ripped apart with minimal effort. Brigida, still slightly dazed from the fight with the spider was content to let Vilkas take the lead, weaving around him and cutting down the weaker, unarmored draugr. Working their way through the catacombs was a slog of winding tunnels, chambers filled with sleeping undead, and alcoves of undisturbed burial goods. Surprisingly, Vilkas did not object to her raiding the various urns and chests in the tomb. “They’re not exactly using it,” he shrugged, his personal cynicism outweighing his Nordic honor.

By the time they reached the great door described by the Dunmer thief, Brigida’s pack had grown heavier with amethysts and gold medallions. She held the claw out in front of the two of them. Three prominent runes adorned the topside of the ornament, the symbols of Tsun, Dibella, and Jhunal. Bear, Moth, and Owl. Justice, Beauty, and Wisdom. Vilkas studied the door then cautiously turned one of the rune-adorned rings on it until the Bear rune stood at the top. He moved the the other rings on the door until they matched the order on the claw.

“Like that I think. And then I think you just put the claw on this middle part here and turn,” he said.

“What if it’s wrong?”

“Well, knowing the ancient Nords, we’ll probably get pelted with a bunch of four-thousand-year-old poisoned darts.”

Tsun. Dibella. Jhunal. Brigida placed the claw at the center of the door. Each talon clicked into a groove on the lock plate which allowed her to turn the lock clockwise. The door began to rumble. Brigida flinched, hoping that they weren’t about to get shot at.

Instead, the claw detached from the lock and the door slid downward, revealing a carved stone stairway. They stepped over the threshold and walked up into a massive natural cavern. On an elaborate dais at the other end of the sanctum was a grand sarcophagus surrounded by burial goods.

She followed Vilkas as he marched over towards the coffin, preemptively drawing his greatsword. They dug through the chests of luxury tomb goods, finding jewelry and ancient weapons but no sign of the Dragonstone. Brigida stood up and walked toward the wall at the back of the tomb. A strange blue-white light crept from the center of the wall. As she drew closer, she could see that there were inscriptions carved into the wall, but they were not in any modern Tamrielic script she recognized. Yet somehow, she could understand the glowing word. “Force,” she whispered, as she ran her fingers over the carving. Her vision began to tunnel and she could feel the ground below her begin to tremble.

 

The whelp collapsed at the exact same moment that the sarcophagus burst open. It was another draugr, albeit more heavily armored than any they had encountered thus far. This draugr was especially aggressive, and Vilkas barely managed to deflect the blows from its enchanted battle axe. The whelp must have gotten back on her feet because she rushed over the Vilkas and began attacking the draugr from behind while he continued to match the undead warrior blow for blow. It fell when she jammed her sword through a decayed gap in its mail. He looked into the coffin where a stone tablet had been sitting under the draugr.

“This has to be the Dragonstone,” he said, lifting it out of the sarcophagus and holding it up for Brigida to see.

“It’s a map,” she said, “of Skyrim.”

He looked down at it, noticing that several spots on the map were marked.

“By the way, what happened over there?” he asked.

She looked a little sheepish. “I’m not sure. There was a light coming from that wall but it’s gone now. And there’s some kind of inscription over there, in a language I don’t recognize but somehow I knew one of the words. I don’t know, maybe it’s Atmoran and my Ma showed me or something.”

“I know some Atmoran,” he said and he walked over to the wall. He definitely didn’t see any light nor did he recognize the language in front of him. “No, I don’t think this is Atmoran. Maybe Akaviri?”

“No,” she said, “I lived in Rimmen for two years and I know what Akaviri script looks like. It’s more… elegant.”

There was something chaotic, almost bestial, about the inscriptions. “Let’s get out of this place,” he suggested at last. “I can feel a slight breeze back here. We should see if there’s a back way out.”


	5. The Sleeping Giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vilkas and Brigida stop in Riverwood for a night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who read and review. Sorry I'm not able to update this story super frequently! I have a really busy job so expect just a chapter or two per week at most.

Vilkas and Brigida emerged from a cavern on the southern face of the mountain. The two warriors walked east towards the dusty hues of impending nightfall and Riverwood. Brigida figured if they were walked enough they could make it to town in time to drop the claw off with Lucan Valerius. Vilkas proposed they stay at the inn that night instead of camping. “Farkas and I have stayed there before. They’ve got a room with two beds that’s cheaper to rent than two separate rooms. If you don’t mind sharing, that is.”

By the time they reached the small village, the stars were already beginning to twinkle in the sky. Brigida led Vilkas to the to Lucan Valerius’s general store. The lights were on, but when she tried to turn the knob, the door was already locked for the evening. Lucan’s younger sister, Camilla, appeared at the window and the Brigida waved at her. Camilla partially opened the door, broom in hand. She was obviously trying to close down the shop. “Sorry, we’re closed for the--”

“Hi, Camilla, right? Brigida Summer-Blade. I met you and your brother a few days ago. We talked about me picking up the golden claw?”

“Oh! Yes, I remember now. You got the claw back already?” the young Imperial woman asked.

“We did. This is my… associate, Vilkas.”

In her periphery, Brigida saw Vilkas flash the girl a particularly rakish grin.

Camilla blushed in the candlelight. “Please come in,” she said, ushering them inside.

She stashed the claw in a small iron safe and handed Brigida a weighty coin purse. “Lucan set this aside as a payment. But please, let me buy you two a drink. I insist.”

“I never say no to free ale,” Vilkas said. He seemed uncharastically genial.

They followed Camilla toward the Sleeping Giant Inn. Brigida’s stomach soured as she remember the off-putting Breton woman she’d encountered last time she’d been at this tavern. Thankfully, when they opened the doors to the inn she wasn’t there.

Camilla handed Vilkas some coin, and he went to the bar to get drinks for the three of them. The two women sat at a table. It was Fredas, and the tavern was busy. “I have to admit,” Camilla said over the din of the tavern, “I’m a little jealous of you. Going off on adventures with handsome swordsmen. I’m just stuck here pushing a broom in my brother’s shop everyday.”

Brigida felt like she was supposed to dissuade the younger woman at this point. Like she was supposed to tell Camilla that adventure’s not all it’s cracked up to be or that she should be grateful to have a roof over her head. But it wasn’t entirely true. Leaving Skyrim at sixteen hadn’t been easy, but she knew the alternative would for her have been a loveless marriage and rural drudgery. Travelling Tamriel, she had met plenty of people who craved the simplicity and security of a quiet life, but just as many who squirmed against it like a hair shirt. Who was she to tell Camilla to be satisfied with sweeping someone else’s dusty floors?

She thought of what the Pirate Captain Sintaya bint-Senai had once told her. “No one can live your life but you,” she said mystically. “If you want something, don’t be afraid to do it. You can’t exist for your brother or anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Camilla said, sounding surprised and a little confused. Vilkas had returned with three large tankards of ale. They toasted to their health in the traditional Imperial way. Brigida guessed from her slightly clipped accent that the Valerius family were middling folk from near the Imperial City. “So tell me about Bleak Falls Barrow,” Camilla asked.

“Lots of draugr,” Brigida replied. “And a frostbite spider; that was fun. We found the bandits who took the claw, too.”

“What happened with them?”

“Two of them were hostile, and we had to take them out,” Vilkas said coolly. “One of them we just scared the shit out of.”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t all bad, though,” Brigida said, noticing the slightly alarmed look on Camilla’s face. “I found silver and gemstones among the burial goods.”

“You should come by the shop tomorrow,” Camilla said. “We might be interested in buying some of that.”

“Take note, whelp,” Vilkas said.

“What? Why do you call her whelp?” Camilla asked.

“We’re Companions,” he replied.

“Like, from Jorrvaskr?”

Vilkas took a gulp of his ale and started to answer her, but Brigida was too distracted to listen. Gerdur and Hod had entered the tavern, and Brigida rose to her feet to greet them.

The couple said they came to the tavern every Fredas night for a drink and a bowl of venison stew. Brigida’s stomach grumbled audibly at this, and Gerdur insisted she accompany them and order some food.

“Thank you again for your hospitality after Helgen,” she said.

“Nonsense. We should be thanking you for talking to Jarl Balgruuf. The extra guards have given the townsfolk great peace of mind. But what are you doing back in Riverwood?”

“I’m actually doing a job for the Jarl right now. I… joined the Companions of Jorrvaskr, and we were up in Bleak Falls Barrow looking for an artifact related to the dragons.”

Gerdur and Hod exchanged a long look. “Did you find it?” Hod asked.

“Yeah, we did. And we found Lucan Valerius’s golden claw as well.”

“He’s been complaining about that thing all week,” Hod said.

Brigida felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked back to see Vilkas who handed her an iron key and her tankard of ale. He leaned over, drawing his face close to hers. “That’s the room key. I’ll leave it with you. We’re gonna go have a drink back at Camilla’s place. See you in the morning,” he was whispering in her ear, his breath hot and humid against her face.

“Oh!” Brigida yelped quietly, realizing what he was saying to her. She looked at Vilkas and told him what her friends back in Daggerfall used to say when someone went home with somebody. “Be safe, have fun.”

He clapped her shoulder and smirked. She watched him cross the room, tried to ignore the tight feeling in her chest as he put his hand on Camilla’s lower back and led her out of the tavern.

She took a gulp of her ale. “For a minute there, I thought he was with you,” Gerdur said wryly.

“Ha! No, strictly business,” Brigida said, definitely not thinking about Vilkas taking off his armor in the dark of Lucan Valerius’s trading post. “He’s another Companion.” She drank more ale. “So, any word from Ralof?”

“Not yet,” Gerdur sighed. “We’re hoping to hear from him soon, though.”

 

After Gerdur and Hod left, Brigida retired to the room Vilkas had rented for them. It was a decently large room with two beds. She tossed her pack on a nearby chair, washed up, and laid down.

Vilkas returned at dawn, smelling like red wine and sweat. “This has been a good weekend, whelp,” he said, throwing himself onto his bed. “I might actually sleep well tonight for a change.”

She forced a small laugh and rolled over, trying to return to sleep herself. Brigida stared at the wall for about an hour before she gave up and wandered into the main hall. Early Loredas morning looked nothing like the rowdy bustle of Fredas night. Over porridge with honey and snowberries, the barkeep Orgnar told her that a carriage to Whiterun left Riverwood around midday. She spent the morning packing up their things.

Waking up Vilkas was even tougher than the previous time. He was loathe to leave behind the genuinely deep slumber he had found in Riverwood. “You need to get up or we’ll miss our carriage,” she said, the third time she attempted to rouse him up that day. His wine-stained lips curled into a snarl.

“Fine! By Ysmir, woman, I’m getting up.” He waved his arm impatiently.

 _Farkas was right,_ Brigida thought.

The carriage back to Whiterun was slow but uneventful, the silence of the ride punctuated only by the occasional nauseated groan from Vilkas. By the time they returned to Whiterun, his constitution had only improved a little.

They stopped under the withered Gildergreen. He grabbed his temples as Heimskr’s midday sermon echoed across the plaza. “Whelp. Take the stone up to Dragonsreach. I need to lay down.”

“Who do I give it to?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “The Court Mage, I think.”

“Fine. Get some rest. And drink some water.”

He grunted and nodded at her. She watched him climb the steps of Jorrvaskr before continuing up to the Cloud District.

 

“I still need to cross-reference some of the names, but I’m convinced this text is from just after the Dragon Wars. Early First Era or Late Merethic,” Farengar Secret-Fire said, brandishing a worn copy of _The Holdings of Jarl Gjalund_. Delphine had hired the Whiterun Court Mage just days after she received news that Ulfric Stormcloak had killed High King Torygg, leaving his sundered, bleeding homeland kingless. For months, she had prayed she was wrong, that the Blades prophecy was wrong. And then a massive black-scaled red-eyed bringer of the apocalypse melted a small fortified town. Delphine hadn’t prayed much since 17 Last Seed.

“Good, thank you. We’re making some real progress now,” she said.

“The Jarl has finally taken some interest now that fire-breathing beasts are threatening his Hold,” the mage drawled. He was an arrogant, angular fellow, and Delphine was certain he had some mer blood. “By the way, some coincidence that you were contracted to research dragons just months before they returned to Skyrim for the first time in millennia.”

Delphine shrugged. A knock on the partially closed door interrupted them. A Nord girl in studded fur armor stood at the threshold.

“May I help you?” the Court Mage asked.

“Er, yeah. I’m with the Companions. We retrieved this artifact for you,” she said, holding out an ancient stone tablet which seemed to have a map carved in it.

“Ah yes! The Dragonstone,” he replied, and then turned to Delphine, lowering his voice. “You’re going to like this. From Bleak Falls.”

Delphine leaned forward to study the stone. A map of Skyrim with several locations marked, each one representing dragon burial mounds. If the old Blades texts were correct, the World Eater could--and would--be raising those dragons to aid him in his vile quest. It was an invaluable piece of the puzzle.

“You got this from the Barrow?” Delphine asked the Nord girl.

“I had help,” she replied. “Another Companion.” Delphine’s eyes crept up to the tattoos peeking out between the Nord’s gauntlets and her chest piece. On the right arm, some type of Nibenese tribal ink. But on the left, Delphine was sure this young woman had multiple designs unique to the Iliac Bay Corsairs. She looked back at the Companion’s face, realizing this was the same Nord woman who had stumbled into her inn and described seeing the World-Eater at Helgen just days prior.

“Nice work,” the Breton replied, careful to keep her expression neutral.

“Proventus Avenicci set aside this as your payment,” the mage said, handing the Nord a sack of coins in exchange for the Dragonstone. “Now run along,” he waved his hand brusquely. The Nord woman furrowed her brow but turned to leave after a polite nod.

“I’ll need some time to decipher this, you understand,” he said, once they were alone again.

“Of course. Just send me a message when you’re done. If we could figure out what order he’s going to revive the dragons…”

“I know. We could see a live one in person which would really help our research.”

“Right,” Delphine said, trying to not to sound sarcastic.

 

After a nap and a bath, Vilkas was finally ready to meet with the Harbinger to discuss Bleak Falls Barrow. A vague headache lingered at edge of his skull, a remnant of the uniquely nasty red wine hangover.

“How’d she do?” the Harbinger asked, handing Vilkas a mug of hot tea.

“Pretty well, overall. She needs some more tactical training; ended up on the wrong end of a Frostbite Spider. I can help her with swordsmanship, but she might benefit from hunting with Aela as well.”

“We ought to have Skjor teach her dueling. You’re a fine lancer, boy, but Skjor might be more suited to her combat style.”

“Ha, good luck with that. Skjor hasn’t taught a whelp since me and Farkas.”

“Yes, well. I imagine he’d do it if I asked him,” Kodlak said with a sigh. “Do you think she’d be ready for the Proving by next week?”

Vilkas sputtered. “Next week? Most new whelps have to train for months before their Proving, and you want to do after a week?”

“The timeline can be adjusted according to the needs of the individual warrior. I know you don’t want to hear this, my boy, but there is something different about this woman. I’ve had… visions.”

Vilkas shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The Harbinger was prone to vivid dreams and dark premonitions, and their frequency had risen over the past few months.

“Her destiny will be a great one, Vilkas. And it will be our duty as Companions to fight alongside her. Now, I didn’t ask if it seemed appropriate to have her Proving next week. I asked if you think she could be ready.”

Vilkas nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think she could.”


	6. Dustman's Cairn

The next day, Kodlak asked to speak with Brigida. Her insides squirmed with anxiety as she walked down the hall to his office, though she wasn’t sure what exactly she had to be afraid of. _Maybe he knows you’re a violent convict,_ she thought darkly.

“Please have a seat,” he said warmly, gesturing to a chair. Her heart rate began to slow as he poured her a cup of yellow mountain flower tea. “How has your first week at Jorrvaskr been, my girl?”

Truthfully, she was just happy to not be sleeping outside. Being a Companion was a great honor, but for her, it was just another way to use her skills to earn coin. “Good. I’m getting settled in,” she said nervously.

The Harbinger nodded. “Excellent,” he said, and the paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he continued. “It’s rather difficult to discuss, but you are Brigida Adalbertsdottir Summer-Blade, yes?”

Her elongated eyes narrowed in suspicion. Why did the Harbinger know her patronym? “Yes,” she said slowly. “How did you…?”

“I knew your father,” he said gently. “In the Great War. I led Whiterun’s forces and he commanded Falkreath.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She had never met her father, who died months before she was even born.

“Forgive me, but you look so much like him, and I remembered his wife was with child during the war.”

“I--yes, I’ve heard that before. The Summer-Blade eyes.”

“He was a great man and an even better fighter.”

“I’ve heard that as well, but thank you for saying it,” she said in a gracious, if rehearsed, tone. Her father had been the last Summer-Blade patriarch to serve as Thane of Falkreath, and was remembered fondly throughout the hold. She’d spent her entire childhood hearing folks tell her about his fine character and his skill with the greatsword.

“I’ve actually seen your father, recently, in a dream I had,” Kodlak added. “As Harbinger, I receive visions, metaphorical premonitions of what is to come. I believe you were fated to serve here at Jorrvaskr.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s hard for me to explain. The visions can be difficult to interpret, but it is clear to me that you have a vital role to play in absolving the sins of the Companions.”

Brigida forced herself not to laugh in disbelief. “I don’t know what to say, but I’m just grateful for opportunity to stay here and train.”

“Yes, well,” he said, “I actually wanted you to do some extra training with Skjor and Aela. I’ve already talked to them both about it, but we would like to ready you for your Proving. It’s an important milestone after which you will be considered a full Companion.”

She thanked the Harbinger with a small bow of her head.

 

The next few days, Brigida spent most of her waking hours training. At dawn, she stalked elk with Aela. The Huntress was sisterly in a way Brigida’s own sister had never been. She was silent during the hunt itself, but on the walk home she would wax about the precarious nature of honor, the art of long-bow archery, and the history of women in the Companions.

In the afternoon, she received dueling lessons from Skjor. This seemed to upset some of the others, particularly Njada and Torvar who claimed it was unfair that the newest, least experienced member was getting special training. She faced silence every night when she returned to the whelp room. Even the normally friendly Ria seemed reticent around her.

“You seem distracted today,” he said after their third training session.

“The other whelps hate me,” she replied and took a swig from her waterskin. She walked to the edge of the yard, looking out over the golden plain. The sun was setting, and there was a chill in the wind that felt good against her sweat-beaded forehead.

“Don’t worry about them. Athis doesn’t care, and Ria’s too kind to blame you for something that isn’t your fault. As for Njada and Torvar, she hates everyone when they’re new, and he won’t remember this by next week.” Skjor carried over two bottles of ale for them.

She leaned against the wall. “I don’t know if I belong here,” she said quietly.

Skjor frowned. “Where’s this coming from?”

“The Harbinger told me I have some important destiny here or something. Something about absolving sins.” She took a large gulp of ale.

“That’s a lot.”

“Right and what he doesn’t even realize is that I did a lot of bad things before I came here.”

“Hey,” Skjor said, “nobody cares what kind of shit you were doing before you came here. The past is the past, so long as you act with honor from here on out.”

“I don’t know, it’s pretty bad,” she said.

“How bad? Unscrupulous merc? Corrupt caravan guard? You weren’t a bandit, were you?”

She took off her quilted gambeson and rolled up the left sleeve of her tunic, revealing the smattering of black and red tattoos. “Corsair. Iliac Bay.”

“You were a pirate,” he said amusedly.

“More of a smuggler. I mostly worked on land, actually” she said.

“And what did you smuggle?” She couldn’t help but notice he was grinning.

“Arenthian wine. Bosmer cheeses. But mostly skooma.”

Skjor whistled. “You ever shoot one of those crossbows?”

“It was mostly just the gunners who had those. They’re the ones who do the actual fighting during a raid and they defend the smuggling ships as well. But, I did get to try shooting one and, yes, it was fun.”

“Okay, one last question. How’d you get mixed up with all that anyway?”

“I left Skyrim when I was a teenager. I wandered around Cyrodiil for a few years, and I ended up in Rimmen. I met this guy there,” she paused, now slightly embarrassed that she was recounting her post-adolescent romantic failings to a hardened middle-age warrior. “He was a corsair and when he went back to Daggerfall, I went with him and started helping out, I guess.”

Skjor clicked his tongue like a disapproving spinster. “I lied. One more question. You’re not currently still working for them?”

“Absolutely not. I defected over a year ago.”

“Are they looking for you?”

“They were,” she said bitterly. “For a year. That’s the rule. If you defect, they have a year to kill you. After that, they’ll leave you alone unless you try to fuck with their business in any way.”

Skjor nodded and took a thoughtful swig of his ale. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, whelp. Far worse than you have gone on to achieve honor with the Companions. And I doubt anyone here would judge for what you did,” he said. “Save maybe Vilkas.”

“Vilkas?”

“His version of honor is very tied up in following the laws of his hold and the codes of Jorrvaskr.”

She thought of the cool ease with which he had slain the bandits outside Bleak Falls Barrow. “Please don’t tell him, or anyone really. Not until I’m ready.”

“Of course. It’s your story to tell. Anyway, like I said, the past doesn’t matter so you don’t need to tell anyone anything.”

 

Alsten Summer-Blade was putting away his plow for the day when the courier showed up at his farm bringing a letter from Dawnstar. Upon seeing his brother’s seal on the front, he rushed into the house and sat at the table in the great hall to read the message.

“Are you sitting at my supper table in your dirty farm clothes?” Sveta, his wife, asked poking her head out of the kitchen.

“It’s from Ludo,” he said, holding up the letter.

Ludo wrote of the dragon, its existence now officially confirmed by the Stormcloaks, as if every citizen of Falkreath hadn’t seen the billowing smokestacks emanating from what was recently a town called Helgen. He wrote of the survival of Jarl Ulfric, the continuation of the Stormcloak effort. But it was the final third of the letter that had Alsten running up the stairs of his house.

“Ma!” he yelled, running into his mother’s bedroom. Ysla Summer-Blade sat in a chair by the window, embroidering a dress for her granddaughter in the waning evening light. Alsten waved the letter. “Ma, I just got a letter from Ludo--”

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“Yes, he’s fine, but. Ma. It’s Britta. She’s back in Skyrim.”

 

Brigida followed Farkas across the prairie, his tall form several paces ahead of her. He was to lead her on her Proving that day. They were en route to Dustman's Cain, another ancient Nord tomb, this time in search of a fragment of Wuuthrad, Ysgramor’s legendary battleaxe. “This is a warlord’s crypt, so expect it to be full of draugr. And you’re gonna take the lead in killing them. I’ll be here to help if things get bad, but you’re supposed to do most of the work. It’s your Proving, afterall,” the large Nord said as he escorted her to the door of the tomb.

“Are there any rules?”

“No magic, no funny business. Stick to your blades and your bow, and you’ll be fine.”

She readied her weapons as he opened the door. They proceeded through dark entryway into the first chamber. Multiple slain draugr were piled on the stone floor. The burial urns too had been overturned.

Farkas crouched down near the draugr. “These wounds are fresh. Whoever was here did this recently.”

“Someone beat us to it.”

“Looks like it. We’ll go a little further, but if this place was just ransacked by bandits, it’s not going to be a very good Proving. We might have to come up with a different plan,” he said apologetically.

“Let’s go a little further and check it out.”

The next two chambers were much like the first, stacks of dead draugr in the center of the room. Finally, they entered a large, open room. Alcoves of burial goods lined the room, and unlike in the previous chambers, the loot remained in tact. She was examining an array of ancient potion vials when she noticed an iron lever on the wall. Brigida grabbed the lever and pulled it downward. She was a disappointed when nothing happened at first. But she heard rumbling behind her, and when she turned around an iron gate had close, sealing her in the alcove. She lifted the lever back into its original position, but the gate did not budge. Farkas strode over her. “What have you gotten yourself into, whelp?” he said with a laugh.

“Sorry, Farkas.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure I can get you out of there in just a minute.”

He was wandering the perimeter of the room when a gang of warriors armed with swords and maces ambushed him. Brigida tried to shoot arrows through the iron bars that caged her in, but her aim was significantly hampered. Farkas was struggling with the sheer number of opponents.

He leaned forward and disappeared from her view for a moment. However, the creature that lifted back up was not Farkas, but a coal-black werewolf with massive claws and a salivating maw. The beast’s eyes flashed with silver light as he tore into his enemies. All five warriors were quickly destroyed. Gore surrounded the werewolf. He shook like a dog on a rainy day, his enemies’ blood wicking off his fur. His form constricted as he resumed his human form. His steel plate had snapped off during his transformation, and the linen undertunic and wool trousers he wore under his armor were covered in tears.

He crossed the room, pulling on a lever identical to the one Brigida had found. The gate in front of her finally lifted. She walked a few tentative steps forward. Farkas approached her carefully. “Hope I didn’t scare you,” he said.

“You’re a werewolf?”

“It’s a gift some of us have,” he said. “We assume the form of a beast.”

“Are all the Companions…?”

“No,” he said. “Just the Circle. And Kodlak and Vilkas hardly ever use it. I try to avoid it. Unless I have to.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he added sternly. “Including the other whelps.”

She nodded, “You have my word.”

Farkas fastened his armor back on, and they proceeded to the next section of the tomb. They had entered the inner catacombs. Here the draugr were still alive--or undead, at least. Brigida settled into a rhythm of shooting as many as she could when they were first waking up and engaging the rest with her blades. Headshots and beheadings were the most reliable way to kill draugr, so she strove for those as much as possible. Rarely would Farkas intervene, using his greatsword to knock the occasional enemy out of the way.

At the end of the catacomb, was the final burial chamber. It resembled the one at Bleak Falls Barrow, but was much smaller. Farkas told her to approach the sarcophagus at the center of the room to challenge the draugr overlord. It rose from its coffin, drawing an ancient warhammer. Brigida dodged most its heavy but slow strikes, weaving around the draugr and slashing at it with her blades. Once it was on the ground, she drove her blade into its partially rotted skull. They found the fragment of Wuuthrad amongst the burial goods.

Strangely, at the back of the crypt was another wall filled with carved script like the one she’d found in Bleak Falls Barrow. And like that wall, this one had a glowing word at its center. She walked towards the wall, this time taking care to anchor her feet steadily on the ground. The glow overwhelmed her vision just as it had last time, but now she was able to stay upright. _Yol._ Fire. “Did you see that?” she asked Farkas.

“See what?”

“The light, the glowing word, anything?”

“Nope, sorry whelp. Are you tired from fighting too much? Sometimes when I get hungry--”

“Nah, I’m alright,” she said with a sigh. “So, did I pass the Proving?”

“Yeah,” Farkas grinned. “I’d say you did.”

 

There were back at Jorrvaskr just after nightfall. Brigida opened the doors of the hall to find Vilkas, arms crossed over his chest. “We’ve been waiting for you two,” he said impatiently before leading her and Farkas to the back terrace. Torches burned across the yard. Kodlak, Skjor and Aela stood in a cluster with the other residents of Jorrvaskr gathered near them. Farkas and Vilkas joined their fellow Circle members, and Kodlak gestured for her to stand in front of him.

“Brothers and sisters of the Circle,” the Harbinger said, “today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This woman has endured, has challenged, and has shown her valor. Who will speak for her?”

“I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us,” Farkas said, stepping forward.

“Would you raise her shield in her defense?” the Harbinger asked, turning now to Aela.

“I would stand at her back,” Aela said proudly, “that the world might never overtake us.”

“Would you raise your sword in her honor?” Kodlak asked Vilkas, who met Brigida’s gaze.

“It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes.”

The Harbinger looked at Skjor. “And would you raise a mug in her name?”

“I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revelled in her stories.”

“Then this judgment of the Circle is complete. Her heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, so the mountains may echo, and our enemies may tremble at the call.”

“It shall be so,” the rest of the Circle murmured. And just like that, Brigida was a full-fledged member of the Companions.

There had been plans for feasting and boozing that night. Platters of food and flagons of ale were immediately brought out to the terrace. Brigida had barely tucked into her first drink when an alarmed Dunmer ran up the back steps of Jorrvaskr, calling out to the Harbinger. The elf was panting in the torchlight as she approached the party. As she drew closer, Brigida recognized it was Jarl Balgruuf’s housecarl, Irileth.

“Companions,” she said curtly. “Whiterun needs your help. There’s a dragon attacking the Western Watchtower.”


	7. The Last Dragonborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon attacks Whiterun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading and reviewing!

Three of the five guards stationed at the Western Watchtower had already been killed by the time the Companions reached the scene. Irileth and a band of city guards were already in formation, firing arrows in the vague direction of a roaring, olive-brown dragon. Brigida was certain this was a different dragon than the one at Helgen. She drew her bow, shot at the beast, and watched her arrow bounce off of its scales and ricochet toward the ground.

“Aim for the wings,” Aela shouted. Her own steel-tipped arrow zipped through the the membranous wing of the dragon, leaving a small hole behind. The Companions and guards alike followed Aela’s lead, shooting at the dragon’s great limbs.

“ _YOL!_ ” the beast screeched in the thin night air before unleashing a fireball at the crowd of warriors. Brigida stood at the periphery of the crowd, close enough to feel the heat but not so near that she had to duck out of the way. She stood her ground, shooting the dragon in the face. The beast swooped away, frustrated by the ceaseless barrage of arrows. The accumulation of small tears in the dragon’s wings impaired its ability to fly.

The beast returned moments later, diving towards the crowd at top speed. “ _FUS!_ ” the dragon shouted as passed overhead. Njada, Farkas and Skjor were all knocked off their feet. Several people near them staggered. The dragon tried to pull out of its dive before colliding the with the ground behind them, but its torn wings failed to lift it back up. The beast crashed into the, roaring loudly. The warriors now drew their various melee weapons. Brigida slashed against the dragon’s hind leg, but her sword clanged against the beast’s thick scales.

From the corner of her eye she saw Vilkas and Farkas rush to the front of the dragon. The twins were using their greatswords to slice the thinner skin around the dragon’s neck and face. Brigida exchanged her blades for her bow and arrows and ran behind the two brothers. If she could position herself between them she could shoot the dragon’s face from point blank range with Farkas and Vilkas holding it off. She balanced her stance and took a steadying breath. Brigida didn’t break gaze with the dragon as she nocked her arrow. Her shot landed true, right between the beast’s eyes. The dragon cried out and thrashed its head about, snapping its jaws wildly. It nearly bit Vilkas who’d managed to avoid serious injury by jabbing his blade into the roof of its mouth. Pain had made it reckless. The dragon, now enraged, released a weak stream of flames in Vilkas’s direction. He jumped out of the way, and Brigida began to launch arrow after arrow directly down the dragon’s throat. The steel greatsword embedded in its mouth made it impossible for the dragon to close its jaw.

“ _Dovahkiin? Niid!”_ the dragon sputtered as it tried to launch forward towards Brigida for one last attack, but it collapsed before it could reach her. Black, viscous blood oozed from its still open mouth, pooling in front of her boots. The edges of the puddle turned golden, then blindingly white as a rushing sound swept past her ears. She looked up, but all she could see was swirling white-gold light around her. Brigida’s skin felt tight and itchy and her blood ran hot in her veins. She looked down at her hands, her skin glowing as the swirling light and heat seemed to rush into her.

The dragon’s flesh and humors seemed to have sublimated; only scraps of scaled hide hanging from its massive skeleton remained. At her feet, the ground was dry. The guards and Companions had gathered around her.

“You’re Dragonborn,” one of the guards said.

Brigida shook her head. “What? Of course I’m not--”

“In the old legends the Dragonborn was the only one who could permanently fell a dragon,” the guard continued. “You absorbed its power.”

“What kind of Nord nonsense is this?” Irileth demanded.

The guard sighed. “Try to shout,” he urged Brigida. “They say the Dragonborn can learn to use the thu’um like a dragon can.”

Brigida turned around, facing away from the small crowd that had amassed around her and shouted “ _Fus!”_ The rumbling of the thu’um echoed across the plain as branches and stones and other debris went flying.

She heard gasping behind her and felt a warm hand cup her shoulder. It was Vilkas. “Let’s get you back to Jorrvaskr,” he said tersely. Skjor had appeared at her other side.

“All of you will need to speak with Jarl Balgruuf about this,” Irileth insisted, trailing behind Skjor.

“We will in due time,” he said, brushing the elf aside. “But first we’re taking our shield-sister home.” The two men had each taken hold of one of her arms, forcing her to keep pace with their long Nordic strides. The Dunmer soon fell behind.

They were rounding the corner near the stable when the call of the Greybeards rocked the sky like a clap of thunder. “ _DOVAHKIIN!_ ” Brigida did not stop, but she did turn her head to look at the Throat of the World as Vilkas and Skjor led her up towards Whiterun. Inside the city walls, the townsfolk were gathered in the streets murmuring about the dragon and the Dragonborn.

They entered Jorrvaskr where Kodlak stood in the hall waiting for them. “You’ve all returned, relatively unscathed I might add,” the Harbinger said. Vilkas’ face was burned but the rest had escape with little more than bruises and cuts.

“Harbinger, we will regale you with tales of our kill soon, but first we must discuss something,” Skjor said. “Circle only.” Behind them, Njada scoffed quietly.

 

Vilkas winced as he dabbed a rag soaked in fire resist potion on his burnt face. He and the rest of the Circle had convened in Kodlak’s office to discuss the events at the Western Watchtower.

“The new blood is Dragonborn,” Skjor said bluntly. “We saw her… absorb the dragon after she killed it.”

“Brigida? She’s the one who killed the dragon?” the Harbinger asked.

Vilkas shrugged. “That’s debateable. But she was definitely the last one to land a hit on it before it went down.”

“And what’s this about being Dragonborn?” Kodlak asked.

“When the dragon died, its flesh turned into this gold-white light. The light rushed around and into her body,” Aela said.

“Then the guards were talking about the Dragonborn, and one of them told her to shout,” Skjor sighed, “and she did.”

“I see,” Kodlak said grimly, leaning back in his chair.

“And the Greybeards called out something from High Hrothgar,” Vilkas added. “I think they’re summoning her.”

“Farkas, you took her on her Proving today. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?” the Harbinger asked.

Farkas suddenly looked sheepish. “Meant to tell you sooner, but with the dragon attack I didn’t get a chance. But I had to transform in front of her, so she knows.”

Vilkas, Skjor, and Aela all groaned, but Kodlak remained calm. “How did that happen, my boy?”

“She got trapped behind a gate, and then I got ambushed. I was outnumbered five-to-one. Only did it 'cause I had to, Kodlak.”

“I know, Farkas. It’s alright.”

“Anyway, in the cairn she said she saw some glowing words on a wall, but when I looked at it I didn’t see anything but some weird inscription.”

“The same thing happened when we were at Bleak Falls Barrow,” Vilkas said. “She nearly passed out looking at it. Neither of us could recognize the script, although now I wonder if it’s Dovahzul. I have a book--”

“You can research later, Vilkas,” the Harbinger interrupted. “I’ll need to speak with her, and tomorrow she’ll have to explain all this to the Jarl. After that, the Greybeards will likely know what’s best for her.”

“She’s our shield-sister,” Skjor said. “We can’t just hand her over to them.”

“I’m not suggesting that,” Kodlak answered tensely. “But I knew she had a great destiny from the day she arrived at our hall. I thought she was here to help us find Wuuthrad, but it appears her fate is even grander than what I could have imagined. As Companions we must guide her towards that fate, and never let our ties to her hold her back from it.”

 

Brigida pulled off her armor piece by piece until she was standing in the half of the whelp room she shared with Ria and Njada in nothing but her shift and stockings.

“You okay?” Ria asked.

“I don’t know what happened,” she replied, sitting on the edge of her bed. “But I’m alright, I guess.”

“You know, Talos was Dragonborn, and he could use the thu’um,” Njada said proudly.

“Many heroes of Cyrodiil were,” Ria said, “from St. Alessia to Martin Septim.”

“There’s no way that I’m…” her voice trailed off. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the word Dragonborn. Ria and Njada exchanged a heavy look. Luckily their conversation was interrupted by Aela, who was now standing in their doorway. “Are you alright, whelp?” the Huntress asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she sighed.

“Good. The Harbinger wanted to speak with you.”

“What? Right now?” Brigida didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone about anything.

“Yes,” Aela said kindly but firmly, “right now.” Brigida nodded reluctantly. She quickly threw on a wool skirt and knit shawl over her shift and walked down the hallway.

She was nearly to the Harbinger’s office when a strangely enthusiastic Vilkas popped out of his room. He held in his hand a thick old book bound in black leather. The tome was still open as if he couldn’t be bothered to stop reading it. “Whelp, I have this book you have to see. It’s really--”

“Vilkas, I have to go talk with Kodlak right now.”

“Right,” he said. “Go do that first, but you need to see this. Come by my room after.”

“Okay.” Brigida tried very hard to ignore her heart jumping slightly at his invitation.

She continued on to Kodlak’s office, where the Harbinger asked her to recount the dragon fight. She told him about its death, the rushing white light, and the thu’um.

“How many people saw you shout?” he asked.

“The other Companions, Irileth, and a handful of guards.”

“The guards like to talk, so there's a chance half of Whiterun will know by morning. But we can ask Jarl Balgruuf to keep things quiet until you figure out your next move. We'll have to meet with him tomorrow, you know. And he'll likely ask you to be Thane of Whiterun.”

“You’re joking.” she said incredulously.

“Certainly not. Jarl Balgruuf has been searching for a new thane since Vignar retired. Avulstein Grey-Mane was the obvious choice, but his family’s political ties have complicated things. Your father was Thane of Falkreath, and you come from a landed clan.”

“Do I have to accept?”

Kodlak chuckled. “You don’t have to, but perhaps you should. Thanehood would give you access to resources that will help you should you…” the Harbinger trailed off for a moment and gave Brigida a rather grim look, “should you choose to fight the dragons.”

“What do you mean?”

“The return of the dragons and the return of the Dragonborn. I’m sure we can both agree that is no coincidence. In ancient times, the Dragonborn played a vital role in fighting and hunting dragons.”

“Do you know why all of this is happening?” she asked.

The Harbinger shook his head solemnly. “I wish I knew more. I know Vilkas is trying his damnedest to figure it out,” he said with a small grin. “And I’m sure the Jarl has that court mage of his on the case as well. Beyond that, I think your best bet would be to visit the Greybeards.”

“That was them calling from High Hrothgar, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I believe so. And I can’t tell you how to proceed, but if I were you I’d go sooner rather than later. If anyone knows what’s going on, it’s them.”

“I’ll go soon,” she sighed. “I was hoping to have couple of days to relax after my Proving.”

“Ah yes, your Proving. Normally we have a better chance to celebrate these occasions," he said, giving her a sympathetic look. "Now that you’re a full member of the Companions, we’ll have custom weapons and armor made for you. Tomorrow, after you meet with the Jarl, I’ll have Eorlund and his son fit you for your new equipment. Then one of the Circle members can fill you in on the rest.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I also understand that you may have learned something sensitive about Farkas in the cairn,” he said gently.

“Yeah, but he explained everything.”

“Yes, well, it’s very important that you not tell anyone about what you learned. That includes with the other whelps.”

“I understand. Farkas said the same thing, more or less.”

“Very well, my girl. I won’t keep you any longer. We’ll meet with the Jarl tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Harbinger,” she said with a polite bow. She almost walked back to the whelp room before she remembered Vilkas, his book, and his offer.

 

“You wanted to see me?”

Vilkas looked up from the text in his lap. He sat on his bed, surrounded by piles of history books. The whelp--her pulse quick and her hair loose--stood in his doorway.

“Yeah, remember those inscriptions we found in Bleak Falls Barrow?" he asked. "Neither of us could recognize the script.”

“Yes,” she said tentetively as she walked up the edge of his bed.

He grabbed one of the books from a nearby pile, flipping through it until he landed on the page he was looking for. He held it up for her to see. “Dovahzul,” he said. “The language of the dragons.”

“That’s it! How did you--”

“I knew it looked familiar. And I think the reason you understood it is because you’re, well…”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” she cut him off. “What else did you find?”

He glanced back to the book on his lap. “Dragonborn have been around for a long time. A lot of the best records are from the Second Era. Some were warriors who hunted dragons with The Blades. Others were more spiritual, studying the thu’um under the tutelage of the Greybeards. Scholars believe it to be a blessing bestowed upon humanity by Akatosh.”

“Alessia made a covenant with Akatosh,” she said slowly. 

“Right, and as far as we know she was the first Dragonborn. And Dragonborn emperors from three different dynasties ruled Tamriel for much of history until the end of the Third Era.”

“The Septims were Dragonborn, I know that much” she said.

“That they were,” Vilkas nodded, drumming his fingers against the book in his lap. “From Tiber to Martin. He was the last person known to have the Dragonblood until you, I suppose.” She looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide, and said nothing.

“There’s one more thing,” he continued gingerly as he flipped to the final chapter. “It’s this old Blades prophecy. I don’t know exactly what to make of it, but here,” he said, handing her the book.

She read the text aloud:

 

_When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world_

_When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped_

_When the Thrice-Blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles_

_When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls_

_When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding_

_The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turn upon the Last Dragonborn_

 

“What does any of that mean?” she asked, now sitting on his mattress. The book sat open between them.

He shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, but I have some ideas. The World-Eater is an old title for Alduin, of course.”

“I know him,” she said. “The time dragon who brings the end of days.”

“Yeah that one,” he laughed. “He’s a Nordic aspect of time. Like Akatosh and Auri-El. But where Auri-El represents time’s dawn and Akatosh rules the flow of time, Alduin’s domain is time's end.”

“What about the rest? _The White Tower falls._ That’s not the Great War is it?”

“I think it’s the Oblivion Crisis. _The Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne._ Could be Martin Septim.”

“The Brass Tower,” she said, suddenly animated. “I remember hearing that phrase when I lived in Daggerfall. It’s another name for the Numidium.”

“Of course! That’s got to be the Warp in the West,” he grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere. It seems to be describing a series of events from the Third Era,” he thought aloud. “The Thrice-Blessed could be the Dunmer tribunal. They fell sometime before the Oblivion Crisis but after the Miracle of Peace. And that first line about misrule… Well, maybe it’s just about Uriel Septim VII in general, but he was mostly a decent emperor so I guess it might be about the Imperial Simulacrum.”

“What? Is that when they sent him to Oblivion?”

“Yes. The battlemage Jagar Tharn used the Staff of Chaos to banish Uriel and then posed as the Emperor.”

“So that just leaves the Snow Tower. Is that in Skyrim?

“Sundered, kingless, bleeding,” he said softly.

“Sounds like Skyrim right now to me,” she quipped.

They both looked down at the prophecy, reading through it again.

“So, does this mean Alduin is back?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly.

“Let’s hope not. I don’t think the dragon we killed at the watchtower could have been Alduin. He went down entirely too easily, and besides Alduin is supposed to be spiny and black with glowing red eyes.”

He could smell her heart rate picking up again as her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Vilkas, that’s what the dragon in Helgen looked like.”

They sat quietly for a moment and Vilkas couldn’t quite bring himself to look her in the eyes. “Well, fuck,” he said finally, breaking the weighty silence. “Do you wanna drink?”


	8. A Friend In Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brigida meets with the Jarl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all of you who are reading this fic! I appreciate you all :)

“Please, let’s talk about anything else. Tell me a story,” Brigida said as Vilkas handed her a tankard of mead. The metal was cool on her hands.

He frowned at her and sat down on his bed. “You’re going to have think about all this Alduin stuff eventually, you know.”

“I know,” she said defensively. “Soon. But not right now.” She sipped the mead; it was tart, the flavor sharper than she expected and she put in considerable effort to keep her face neutral. “Please? Tell me about where you and Farkas grew up.”

He shook his head, sighed, and began to speak. “Here. Right here at Jorrvaskr. Our father--alleged father--was a Companion. He died in the war when we were really young. Kodlak and Tilma were the closest thing we had to parents.”

“My father died in the war, too. Before I was born.”

“I don’t remember Jergen,” he confessed. “I remember letters he sent during his campaign in Hammerfell. We don’t even know if he was really our father. He found us in a cave with a bunch of necromancers and brought us back here. By the time we could walk and talk, he was already in the war. Anyway, it’s not my problem now,” he said coldly.

She smirked. The mead was making her cheeks warm. “It’s weird, isn’t it? People expect you to be sad about the death of this person you never knew.”

Vilkas leaned back slightly, his eyebrows raised as if he were surprised to hear her say that. “To be honest, I rarely ever think of him. I don’t care who my real parents are. I know who raised me,” he took another sip from his tankard. “What about you? Where do you come from?”

“A farm outside of Falkreath. Very boring, I promise,” she insisted.

“You don’t seem like a farm girl,” he said wryly.

“That’s ‘cause I left home when I was sixteen. Travelled and worked and lived in actual cities. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

“Why did you leave?” he asked.

She finished the last of her mead in one long swig. “That’s a very long and sordid story,” she said theatrically. Her head was starting to feel fuzzy. She looked down into the empty tankard. “How am I already this buzzed? When was the last time we ate?”

“Ages ago,” he laughed. “Wanna go upstairs and get some food?”

She nodded vigorously. They crept up to the great hall where they sat close around a single candle, sharing a platter of food leftover from the party before. “I’m definitely not telling you why I left Skyrim,” she teased him between bites of crusty bread and hard cheese. “Not yet. You have to earn it.”

“And how do I go about doing that?” Vilkas asked. His pale grey eyes flashed with silver.

“It’s very personal,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me something personal first.”

“That’s not fair,” he leaned forward. He was now close enough that she could smell the sour-sweet mead on his breath. “Why do I have to go first?”

“I don’t make the rules,” she shrugged.

“What? Yes, you do. You literally just made that rule up.”

She giggled as the front doors of Jorrvaskr opened. Skjor and Aela, hands entwined, had stumbled into the hall looking sweaty and disheveled. They quickly split apart upon seeing Vilkas and Brigida.

“What are you two doing?” Skjor asked suspiciously.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Vilkas retorted. There was an awkward pause.

“Actually,” Brigida stood up suddenly. “I was just thinking that I need to go to sleep. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow,” she explained. Aela waved awkwardly while Skjor and Vilkas continued to stare one another down. “Good night, everyone,” she said before descending the stairs back to the whelp room.

 

“Whiterun is honored to be the adopted home to the Dragonborn,” the Jarl said after Brigida finished recounting the story of the dragon attack. Balgruuf, Irileth, Kodlak, and Brigida had gathered in the hall of Dragonsreach over thick porridge and strong tea to discuss the events of the previous night. “It would only be appropriate to name you as my Thane.”

Her stomach twisted up. Being Thane could bring her money and stability like she had never had before. It also opened the opportunity for tremendous scandal if her past were to be exposed. She cleared her throat. “Thank you, my Jarl. It would be my honor to serve as Thane of Whiterun.”

Kodlak raised a single eyebrow.

“Fantastic. I know this relationship will be beneficial for us both. Now, to be Thane, you’ll need a housecarl, and you’ll also need to own some land in the hold,” the Jarl said. “Proventus! Irileth!” he called up to the dais behind him. The Imperial steward reported to Balgruuf’s side immediately, handing him a small stack of papers and a large brass key. The Dunmer warrior disappeared up the stairs towards the Jarl’s personal quarters.

“This,” the Jarl said, handing Brigida the papers and key, “is the deed for a small house down in the Plains district that is currently abandoned. I will not lie, it is a modest home and not in the best condition. However, this is the simplest way to make you propertied in Whiterun.”

“I plan to continue to live at Jorrvaskr, but I suppose that makes sense,” she said.

“And this,” the Jarl continued, looking behind towards Irileth who had now returned from upstairs accompanied by a dark-haired Nord woman in a Whiterun guard uniform, “is Lydia. She’s a lieutenant-guard here at Dragonsreach. I believe she could serve you well as a housecarl unless there is someone else you would prefer.”

Lydia looked at Brigida, giving her the faintest smile. She looked strong and serious. “I doubt any of the other whelps would be interested,” Brigida joked, catching Kodlak’s eye. “No, I’ll accept your offer. Pleasure to meet you, Lydia. I’m Brigida Summer-Blade.”

“It is my honor and duty to serve you, my Thane,” the housecarl said with a respectful bow.

 

Brigida left Lydia at Dragonsreach for the time being. She wasn’t sure she wanted a housecarl tagging along while she was training and doing jobs with the Companions, but it could be nice to have someone to accompany her to Ivarstead and to watch over the tiny, boarded-up house the Jarl had foisted upon her.

Back at Jorrvaskr, Brigida was sent up to the forge to meet with Eorlund’s son to be fitted for armor. “Da will be here shortly,” the platinum blond Thorald Grey-Mane assured her. She tried not to blush as the young blacksmith wrapped a measuring tape around her waist, bust, and hips. “I think he’s planning on a mix of leather and mail pieces for you.”

“Good. I don’t like to be weighed down,” she said.

“I know he’s got a short sword and a parrying dagger for you as well,” Thorald added. “And a quiver of Skyforge Steel Arrows, of course.”

“That all sounds great. Don’t suppose you know where I could get my hands on a crossbow, do you?”

Thorald grinned. “I wish Da would let my try to make one. They’re hard to come by in Skyrim, and even if you find one, they’re bloody expensive. My father is… old fashioned and doesn’t have much interesting in trying to make them himself.”

“That’s a shame,” she frowned. “Might do well against a dragon.”

“I’ll let you know if anything changes,” Thorald winked as his father began to ascend to stairs up to the forge.

Eorlund approached, bearing the aforementioned weapons in gleaming Skyforge Steel. He fit the grips on the blades to Brigida’s hands and restrung her long bow. They discussed her combat style and he determined the right mix of armor pieces to suit her needs. Brigida gave the blades a few trial swings to feel out their weight a balance. Behind her she could hear Thorald muttering to his father. “Those blades Farkas brought back from the cairn? I was looking at them this morning and I swear they’re made of silver.”

“I’ll take a look at them,” Eorlund said reassuringly.

After sharpening her new sword for a final time, the Grey-Manes sent Brigida down to the yard where she meant up with Aela and Njada.

“How’s Njada’s boyfriend?” Aela quipped.

“Huh?”

“Shut up,” Njada hissed, rolling her honey-colored eyes. “Aela thinks she's so funny.”

“And Njada can’t stop making moony eyes at the Grey-Mane boy,” the Huntress laughed and swept her auburn hair out of her face.

“He is rather handsome,” Brigida said. She met Aela’s eyes, pale green-grey laced with silver, and hoped the older woman wouldn’t bring up their awkward encounter from the night before in front of Njada. She didn’t.

Brigida and the two women sat on the terrace where they elaborated on the structure and duties of the Companions. Ultimately each shield-sibling had the duty to perform jobs for the organization by picking up contracts. Contracts were delegated through the four Circle members, each of whom specialized in different types of work. Farkas handled duels, brawls and rescue missions. Aela stalked fearsome beasts and creatures. Vilkas delved into tombs and recovered rare artifacts and stolen goods. And Skjor accepted most of the bounties that reached Jorrvaskr, capturing fugitives and eliminating bandits.

“You’ll still have to do jobs like any other whelp, even if you are Dragonborn,” Njada said, a mean smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

Brigida resisted the urge to snap at her. “I know,” she said flatly.

“When are you going to High Hrothgar?” Aela asked.

“Soon? I haven’t figured out the exact plan yet--”

“Well, you shouldn’t wait too long,” the Huntress advised.

“Yeah, I agree,” Brigida sighed. She knew Aela meant well, but was starting to tire of people telling her what to do. “I’m going to take a day or two to rest, but I’ll definitely be leaving for Ivarstead shortly. Within a week, I swear.”

 

She spent the next few days laying low, running simple errands for Jorrvaskr, reading the books Vilkas had lent her, and sparring with Athis and Ria in the yard. She and Lydia met up to investigate the house Jarl Balgruuf had gifted her. Breezehome was empty and dusty and in need of significant repair. Brigida was certain she could fix the place up and make it into a decent abode, but between Companion’s business and Dragonborn business, she doubted she’d have the time. For the time being, Lydia had set up the hearth in the front room as well as a plain bedroll.

“I’m not a guard anymore, so I’ll need somewhere to stay.” Lydia seemed restless since her job had ended. Brigida had little for the housecarl to do until their journey to Ivarstead.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Brigida insisted. “And feel free to make any improvements as you see fit.”

She walked up the cobblestone street toward the Wind District. The sun was warm, but a cool breeze portended the coming of autumn. Brigida crossed through the marketplace, the smell of apples and smoked fish in the air. As she passed the well in the center of the market, she felt a pinch on the back of her upper arm. She looked behind her to see a pretty Nord woman with sleek auburn hair. Brigida recognized her as a townie named Ysolda. Her eyes were wide and her hands were trembling. She whispered in something in shaky Ta’agra that Brigida could roughly translate as “friend needs you.”

Brigida should have walked away. She should have ignored the woman and returned to Jorrvaskr. Instead she whispered back a phrase that meant “lead the way.” Her heart was racing as she followed Ysolda up the stairs toward the Bannered Mare. She hadn’t heard from her Khajiit employers in the weeks since Helgen and she'd hoped they had simply forgotten about her. Afterall, Brigida had been as much of a liability to the Syndicate as she had been an asset.

The woman led her to an upstairs room where two Khajiit sat around a small wooden table. On the right was Ma’dran, a young ginger striped Cathay merchant who had bought moon sugar from Brigida months before. On the left, Dar’amaj, a large black Suthay-Raht with gold rings in his tufted ears; he had secured Brigida a position with the Syndicate the year before and he had been the one to send her to Helgen that summer.

“Brigida, were you planning to disappear and never contact us again?” Dar’amaj drawled. His Tamrielic was excellent for a Khajiit, with only the faintest Ta’agra accent.

“I was under the impression you were done with me the day you sent me on a suicide mission to Helgen.”

“Come now. There’s no way we could have known a dragon would attack--”

“No,” she interrupted hotly. “But you knew damn well that Pass was crawling with Legion.”

Dar’amaj chuckled. “Always the melodrama with you, Brigida. Never mind all that. We have more work for you, if you’re interested.”

“I’m not,” she said firmly.

“Dar’amaj can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do,” he grinned dangerously. “Companion. Dragonborn. If you want to cut ties right now, so be it.” She opened her mouth to speak but he held up his large, clawed hand. “But, if you would be so kind as to help us with one final job, there could be a great deal of coin in it for you. Fighting dragons must be expensive, no?”

“Why me?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

“You are very good at what you do, this you already know,” Dar’amaj replied. “Plus you’re already here in the area.”

She paused and took a deep breath. “How much coin?”

“Enough to fix up that dilapidated shack you own,” he scoffed. She shifted her weight uncomfortably.

Brigida looked down at the floor, at the steel-toed leather boots that Eorlund Grey-Mane had crafted for her feet. “One job. And then you leave me alone. And stop following me,” she said through gritted teeth. She stared down Dar’amaj, but his amber eyes were steady and calm.

“This one knew she would come around,” he muttered to Ma’dran. “Now boy, tell her of the job.”

The younger Khajiit explained that the Syndicate had recently gotten involved in the trading of Sleeping Tree Sap after securing the location of a source in Skyrim; however, a weak link in the chain, an Orc smuggler named Ulag, had been giving them some trouble. “Talk some sense into him or else take him out,” Ma’dran explained. “If you can manage to get the sap to Ysolda here, the reward will be extra.”

Ysolda had been silent the whole time, not looking at Brigida once. “You tell no one about this,” the Companion said to all three of them. “Or I’ll use you as a dragon shield. Trust me, you don’t want to make life difficult for me.” She threw a final dirty look at Dar’amaj before returning to the street below.


	9. Sleeping Tree Sap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Brigida prepares to leave for Ivarstead, she makes a brief detour.

It was hardest case Martina had seen all year. As a priestess of Arkay, she’d encountered her fair share of bloodied corpses, but the gory tragedy before her was exceptionally chilling. A nine-year-old child, slashed and cut beyond recognition. “This is the Caerellia girl?” she asked tentatively.

Runil gave her a grim look. “They say it was a werewolf. It--" he looked slightly ill. "It tore out her insides.”

She scowled. “Bad enough Falkreath’s full of vampires and necromancers. Now we’ve got werewolves eating our children.”

She positioned her hands above the corpse. Priests of Arkay used a variation of necromantic healing to prepare bodies for burial. This poor child was too maimed to be fully treated, but Martina and Runil would try to get her in the best condition they could manage. The two priests healed the girl in rounds, taking breaks to drink magicka potions to replenish their strength. They then sealed up her many wounds before binding her torso in bandages.

Martina was grateful that Runil would be the one to bury the girl and console the family. She wasn’t sure she could handle it.

As she left the temple that evening, a courier approached her, handing her a message from her brother Alsten. Martina tucked under the lantern outside a tavern to read Alsten’s letter, leaning against the stone wall, pushing her dark blonde hair out of her green eyes.

Her heart sank. As if her day hadn’t been terrible enough, her prodigal sister who had been missing for past decade was spotted in Helgen a couple weeks prior. Martina crumpled up the note, shoving it in her pack. She sulked all the way to the Jarl’s longhouse.

Siddgeir and his court were seated for supper. His table was richly appointed with roast meats and imported wines. “Sister Martina,” the Jarl said coolly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Martina sat unceremoniously next to the Jarl. He passed her a jewelled goblet filled with dark red wine which she refused to acknowledge. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need to be,” she said as she pulled the note from her pack. “Britta’s back in Skyrim. Possibly in Whiterun.”

Siddgeir shushed her and grabbed the note from her hand. His blue-green eyes darted across the page. He shook his head and smirked at Martina. “Shall I send a diplomatic envoy up to greet her?” he asked in a low voice.

“Don’t be cute. I just wanted to warn you, in case she tried to make trouble for either of us,” Martina said as she glared at Siddgeir. “I see now that was a mistake.”

“Don’t be like that,” he hissed. “Thank you for letting us know. Sincerely.”

She forced a smile and excused herself from his presence.

 

As Vilkas strode into the yard, the morning light stung his eyes. The whelps were all occupied with various tasks, so he was looking forward to a rare weekday that wouldn’t be dominated by training, sparring and running jobs. Skjor sat at a table on the terrace, a clay mug of black coffee to his right, cleaning gore from his sword. “Don’t mind me,” he grunted.

Vilkas grinned. “You just get home, brother?”

“Aye,” Skjor said. “I went out for a hunt, and got ambushed by those bloody Silver Hand.”

Vilkas cursed under his breath in Atmoran. “They were at the cairn, too,” he said. “With Farkas and the whelp.”

“They’re stirring up some shit. Especially since that thing in Falkreath.” Skjor spit on the ground in disgust.

“What thing in Falkreath?” the younger man asked, his eyes narrowed.

“You don’t know?” Skjor sighed heavily. “A kid, a little girl, was mauled to death by a lycan.”

Vilkas felt a wave of hot nausea run through his veins. He clenched his fists. “Was it Arnbjorn?”

“No,” the older Nord shook his head. “Some poor idiot called Sinding. Couldn’t control his beast. They’ve got him locked up, but the Silver Hand are out for blood anyway.”

“They’re fanatical,” Vilkas agreed. “And you know my thoughts on lycanthropy.”

“They should know better than to mess with us. And since they don’t, perhaps someone needs to teach them a lesson.”

“Just be careful, brother. You shouldn’t be out there alone.”

“Bah, don’t worry about me, kid. How about you? I hear you’re accompanying the whelp to Ivarstead.”

“I’ve wanted to visit High Hrothgar since I was a boy. Now, I’ve finally got an excuse.”

Skjor nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. You two seem to be getting along lately.”

Vilkas shrugged. “She’s fine.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re going. There are going to be a lot of people who will want things from the Dragonborn. Favors, power, influence. I hope I can trust that you’ll look out for her," Skjor said, "as your shield-sister.”

“Of course,” Vilkas said, slightly confused. “Not sure what you’re getting at here.”

“Just remember, you’re her shield-brother. That’s all.”

Vilkas could feel his temper begin to rise. “I’m not interested in her like that, if that’s what you’re trying to say, Skjor.”

“Good. Then we have nothing here to worry about.”

“No, we don’t,” Vilkas said, with a bit more bite than he intended. “But don’t you think you’re being a bit hypocritical? Everyone knows about you and Aela.”

“She’s my mate,” Skjor said. His tone was stern; Skjor had a way of making Vilkas feel like a bratty teenager all over again. “You know that she and I have been together for years. Don’t ever get involved with another Companion unless you’re ready for a lifelong bond. Otherwise, you upset the order of everything, Vilkas. I did not enter into a relationship with Aela lightly. You’re a twentynine-year-old mercenary and you sleep around like one. Trust me, kid, I would know. I was just like you when I was your age.”

There was a moment of silence between the two men. In the years since Vilkas had joined the Circle and taken on a variety of new responsibilities, his relationship with Skjor had changed. The man who had trained him, who had been at his Proven, his progenitor and mentor had transformed into something approaching a colleague, an equal. Being lectured by Skjor, about his damn sex life of all things, was condescending. _No_ _,_ he thought, _it’s insulting ._

“Like I said,” Vilkas said coldly, “you have nothing to worry about.”

 

Brigida travelled west through an ocean of hip-height golden grasses. The dark brown mare she rode was a gift from her Jarl. The night before she had promised both Vilkas and Lydia they could accompany her to Ivarstead by the end of the week. She then lied to the people who trusted her most, telling them she was heading west for a final elk hunt to clear her head before the journey. In reality, the only thing she was hunting was a drug-smuggling orc.

She came upon a camp of giants and their mammoth herd. A large, barren tree stood in the center of a camp; an eerie ultraviolet glow emanated from it. The cats had instructed her to find Ulag’s campsite, which was in a small cave near the area. She found the orc sleeping inside a small buckskin tent next to smoldered remains of a fire. She crouched over his body, surprised that he remained deeply asleep. She poked the orc’s forehead with her index finger, and his eyelids reluctantly lifted open. “Who’re you?” the orc slurred, still laying in his tent.

Her fingers fell to her dagger’s hilt. “The Syndicate sent me. Seems you’re having some trouble moving your product.”

The orc sighed heavily and propped himself up on his elbow. “Twice now they’ve almost got me,” he shuddered. “And for what?"

“The giants?”

“You saw the big tree right? That’s the Sleeping Tree. I’m supposed to sneak out there when the giants are asleep, collect the sap, and make it back without waking anything. I’ve almost gotten killed multiple times for this shit,” he said miserably. “At first I was pretty successful. But I think they somehow knew I was taking the sap at night, so they started taking the watch in shifts. Or at least tried to. Not very bright, giants. About a third of the time the watchman falls asleep, too. That’s usually when I manage to get any sap. But it’s not worth the risk. Not for the shit prices Ysolda was giving me. I know how much this stuff can really go for.”

She looked around the tent. At least a dozen glass jars filled with the viscous, xanthic Sleeping Tree Sap had been stockpiled in his camp. “So, you decided to stop delivering it to her?”

He nodded. “I thought I could make more coin selling it myself. But I don’t have her connections and I had trouble unloading the stuff.”

Judging by his heavy midday slumber, she could guess that Ulag had gotten restless camping amongst a considerable supply of narcotics and had decided to dabble in the product himself. She rode out here expecting a fight, but instead found a sad, strung-out orc sitting on a small fortune’s worth in drugs.

“Are you hungry, orc?” she asked. He gave her a confused look, but nodded eventually. She rebuilt his campfire using gathered branches and the measly flame spell she could do. Ulag continued to rest in his tent, still heavy from too much sap. Brigida cooked beans and salt pork over the fire which she served with grainy bread and yellow apples.

They ate in silence as Brigida watched the orc’s countenance improve. His skin seemed less dull, his eyes more alive. “So what’s the sap like?” she asked.

“You ever spend the whole day hard at work and then you come home and you lay down in bed? It’s like that, but better.”

“That sounds nice,” she said warmly and passed him a waterskin. “Thing is, if you want to be in this business and not die, you’ve got to lay off on taking that stuff.”

He nodded glumly and began to drink the water. Brigida could never tell how old orcs were, but this one seemed young. “What you do and what Ysolda do are two different things,” she explained calmly. “Selling to the cats is hard. They like to buy things frequently and in smaller quantities which creates more opportunity for risk. Striking the right balance in dealing with them takes finesse. If you want more money, just tell her you upped your prices and threaten her if she doesn’t want to pay up.”

“But I don’t want to threaten her,” he frowned.

“Then you are in the wrong line of work, my friend,” she sighed. “We operate outside the regulation of the law or any guild. You want something, you have to be strong enough to take it for yourself.”

The orc looked apprehensive.

“Do you want to do this?”

“Don’t really have a choice,” he said. “I was banished from my stronghold. I can’t go back. My family…”

“I understand,” she nodded.

She looked around the campsite. “You’ve got enough here that you should be able to keep supplying Ysolda without having to go back into that cave for a couple weeks. In the meantime, work on your sneak skills, your agility. Hopefully, those giants will move on eventually…”

“They won’t,” Ulag groaned. “I think they like the Tree Sap as much as any person.”

“Wait, they take the Tree Sap, too?”

Ulag laughed a little. “Yeah, it’s pretty funny. They stumble around like idiots.”

“You ever try nabbing some sap while they’re under the influence?” she wondered aloud.

“Seems risky,” he replied. “But who knows? It just might be crazy enough to work.”

“Hey, I don’t care how you get the stuff. Just keep Ysolda stocked. You’ll be in the position to negotiate a better deal that way anyhow.” The orc gave her a suspicious look. “Tell you what,” she leveled with him. “Get your shit together and start delivering to Ysolda, and I’ll buy some of it off you right now.”

He smiled weakly but nodded. She exchanged a leather pouch of gold septims for six jars Sleeping Tree Sap to satisfy the Syndicate. Brigida wasn’t sure how long the young orc was going to make it as a smuggler, but desperation has a way of hardening people.

 

Ysolda bought five jars of Tree Sap off Brigida and gave her the payment from Dar’amaj as well. It was more gold than she had seen since Helgen. She felt her insides settle as she held the sack of coin in her hand, the sharp, metallic smell filling her with a familiar warmth. She stood in the cramped quarters of the small home Ysolda rented down in the Plains District. “They said you were good,” the auburn-haired Nord said. “You sure you don't want to keep doing this?”

Brigida shook her head emphatically. “Not a chance. I’m finally out, after all these years.”

Ysolda sighed. “Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Aye,” Brigida smiled warmly. “Oh, and Ysolda? If anyone finds out about this, I’ll make you regret the day we ever met.”

Ysolda squared her jaw. “Likewise,” she said, with a dainty wave.

Brigida returned to Jorrvaskr, her pack heavy with gold. Vilkas and Farkas were sitting at the table, drinking ale and talking in low voices. “And this mess in Falkreath certainly isn’t going to help,” Vilkas hissed.

“Whelp, you’re back. But where’s the elk?” the larger twin asked.

 _Shor’s balls_ _,_ she privately cursed. She had planned on stalking down some prey after Ulag and must have forgotten in her haste to return to Whiterun. “Unsuccessful hunt, I’m afraid,” she said, trying to sound convincingly disappointed.

“You left too late,” Vilkas said. “You’re supposed to be out there by dawn. Even I know that.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said hastily, eager to change the subject. “Are you ready to go to Ivarstead, Vilkas?”

“I’m almost finished packing,” he said mildly.

“I still don’t understand why you’re going,” Farkas said. “Seven thousands steps to see some old guys that can’t talk.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit High Hrothgar,” his brother replied. “It’s a place of great wisdom and learning. Plus, the whelp can’t even shoot an elk,” he pointed at Brigida. “Somebody’s gotta look out for Skyrim’s savior.”

“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or if this is just your terrible attempt at being nice, Vilkas,” she said.

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” he smirked.

“When are you two leaving?” Farkas asked.

“Fredas. Early morning, so don’t be late,” she said, giving Vilkas a stern look. “And actually, it’ll be three of us. My housecarl is coming.”

“Lydia,” Farkas grinned. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

Vilkas sipped his ale. “Not really my type.”

Brigida rolled her eyes. “She’s lovely. You can come along too, if you’d like, Farkas.”

“Maybe I will,” he said, leaning back in his chair. She was struck by how similar the brothers were, and how different. 


	10. Valtheim Towers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first part of the journey to Ivarstead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all who read, like, comment, etc. Sorry there was such a delay getting this chapter up! I had the flu, but I'm better now. Now I'm feeling better and the holidays are behind us, I hope to start updating more regularly again.

The land east of Whiterun was among Skyrim’s most fecund. Broad fields of grain interrupted by groves of apple trees. Lydia hailed from a farm just up the road, where her yeoman father still grew barley and oats. Perhaps she’d ask the thane if she could make a detour to visit the old man on their way back from Ivarstead.

When Irileth had initially asked her if she’d be interested in serving as a housecarl, Lydia certainly hadn’t expected to be riding to meet the Greybeards accompanied by a pair of high-ranking Companions and a possible Dragonborn. The two brothers, Farkas and Vilkas, were well-known by everyone in Whiterun, if not all of Skyrim, but Lydia had hardly interacted with either of them until this day. Their rumored characterization--that Farkas was kindhearted but dim, while Vilkas was clever and cruel--seemed to be exaggerated. Farkas had more wit than she’d expected, while Vilkas was more aloof than malicious.

As for the thane, she was very guarded. Lydia had been told by the Jarl that she was from a minor gentry clan in Falkreath and that she’d recently become a Companion. She knew very little else. The thane was reserved and professional towards Lydia, though she seemed to have a more casual rapport with the two Companions.

The Imperial road cut through the farmland and into the rocky highlands where Whiterun met Eastmarch. She and her horse rode at the back of the group. The White River Gorge was to their left, and the foothills of The Throat of the World to their right. The sky was clear and bright, the air crisp and autumnal. 

The four warriors approached a pair of ancient Nordic towers on either side of the gorge, joined together by a stone bridge. A scrawny young woman in worn hide armor extended a rusty iron short sword across the cobblestone road. A bandit to be sure. Lydia’s hand instinctively moved the the axe at her hip. Her thane approached the bandit still on horseback, her longbow nocked and drawn. 

“T-there’s a toll on this road,” the bandit said. “200 gold.”

Farkas and Vilkas rode up beside their shield-sister, drawing their weapons menacingly.

“I don’t think so,” Brigida said, aiming squarely at the bandit’s forehead. “I think you’re gonna let us go.”

The girl looked at Farkas and Vilkas, at the arrow staring her down. “Fine,” she said through her teeth. “Go quickly before the others spot you.”

The thane of Whiterun lowered her bow as her horse began to walk forward. Farkas rode on with her, but Vilkas stayed put, his greatsword now pointed on the bandit. “Hang on,” he said to his shield-siblings. “We can’t let these criminals continue to harass innocent travelers.” Vilkas turned his head to address the criminal. “You and your gang can either leave this tower or answer to the Companions of Jorrvaskr.”

Lydia’s heart raced in anticipation. She grabbed her shield from her back.

Her thane sighed heavily.

“Fuck this,” the bandit spat, taking a few steps backward. She turned on her heel and sprinted up the road.

“Vilkas,” Brigida said once the girl was out of earshot. “Must we?”

“I won’t tolerate these brigands flagrantly breaking the laws of our hold, and as Thane of Whiterun, you shouldn’t either,” he scowled.

Lydia found herself involuntarily nodding. “See?” he said. “Even your housecarl knows this is wrong.”

“Fine,” the thane shrugged. “Don’t suppose these assholes will leave if we ask nicely?”

“No, but we’ll give ‘em a chance to anyway,” Farkas said, dismounting his horse. The other three warriors followed suit. 

Inside the tower, the brothers found another bandit. They demanded to see the leader of the gang, and marched their hostage across the bridge at swordpoint. Lydia tried not to look out over the bridge. The White River roared below them. A fall from this height would certainly be fatal. The second tower was larger, outfitted with furniture and a fireplace. These outlaws had probably been occupying this structure for awhile now. Lydia was thankful they were clearing it out.

The Companions and Lydia followed the bandit up to the top of the tower to a bandit chief flanked by two archers who immediately drew their bows. Vilkas wrapped his sword around the hostage. “By authority of the Jarl of Whiterun, I order you to vacate this tower,” he snarled at the chief, a ragged yet muscular Nord male with matted blond hair and studded bear fur armor.

“Under what grounds?” the chief asked skeptically. A hefty battleaxe was strapped to the man’s back.

“Your gang’s extorting travellers,” Farkas said.

“One member of our group gave you some trouble. You’ve got no evidence the rest of us are doing anything wrong,” the chief countered.

Lydia shook her head. “This structure is property of the Jarl, and you are occupying it illegally.”

“I was under the impression that the good Jarl wasn’t in the habit of removing squatters by force,” the leader of the bandit gang scoffed.

“He’s not, unless those squatters are actually thieves who harass the traders and merchants who use these highways,” Vilkas said. He pulled his blade in slightly closer to the hostage’s throat. “Leave now and we won’t give you any further trouble. Resist and we’ll arrest you. Or worse.”

The chief motioned for his archers to lower their bows. He then smirked. “Tell you what, lad? You best me at single combat, and we’ll never return to this tower. I win, and you and your girlfriends fuck right off and let us stay.”

It was a preposterous deal--one they had no reason to take as the law was fully on their side and Lydia was certain they’d have the advantage in a group combat scenario. So she was mildly surprised when Vilkas threw the hostage on the ground and accepted the chief’s challenge.

Lydia took a few steps backward, toward the outer edge of the tower. A cold wind whistled across the gorge, the golden late afternoon sun at her back. The two men drew their blades and briefly circled one another. The chief struck first, Vilkas catching his blade with his sword. Their weapons met and clanged together a few more times before the bandit took a heavy downward swing that the Companion barely managed to dodge. Vilkas stumbled sideways, but managed to successfully block the next blow. They continued like this for a while, the bandit aggressively attacking the younger warrior, who could block or counter every strike, but also never took the offensive. Then, as time wore on, the bandit chief’s moves became slower, sloppier. Impatient and agitated, the older man took a particularly clumsy swing at Vilkas, who skipped a half step backwards while thrusting his blade forward. He jabbed his sword into the other man’s chest piece, the Skyforge Steel piercing his armor. The bandit stepped back, blood only on the very tip of Vilkas’s sword. The Companion whacked the stunned bandit chief with the dull side of his sword, knocking him sideways. Blood spilled from the wound in his chest onto his studded armor. Vilkas followed his opponent, sticking the blood-stained tip of his greatsword against the bandit’s throat.

“Go now,” the Companion seethed, “before I kill you.”

The other three bandits looked frantically between one another as their leader stared up at Vilkas in disgust. “You heard the bastard,” he growled at his cohort. One of the archers bent down to help the chief onto his feet. Farkas marched the bandits down the tower and across the bridge, Brigida following behind him. Lydia remained on the tower with Vilkas, who was cleaning his blade while a scrap of a old rag. 

 

“I’m starving,” Farkas admitted as he and Brigida watched the bandits walk east down the road.

“You know, they’re just going to start robbing people somewhere else. This solves nothing,” she sighed.

“You’d prefer we just killed ‘em all?”

“No,” she said as they returned to the tower. “Personally, I just wanted to carry on to Ivarstead. And I’m starving too, Farkas. It’s been a long day.”

“My brother can’t resist busting up a bandit gang,” he joked. They walked up to the bridge. “And he definitely can’t say no to a duel.”

They set up camp in the second tower, a crumbling stone structure lined with a haphazard collection of shabby wooden furniture. She spent the afternoon building a fire and preparing supper with her quiet, orderly housecarl while the brothers slowly led all four of their horses across the narrow stone bridge. The sun was low in the sky by the time they sat down to eat. Her skin was sticky with sweat, her legs ached from a day on horseback. It was only halfway into her second cup of Alto Wine that she started to feel at ease. She had taken off the Skyforge cuirass and mail greaves Eorlund had made for her and was now cross-legged on the stone floor in her gambeson and breeches, a clay bowl of pottage in her lap. Lydia was next to her; Vilkas leaned against the fireplace. Farkas was the only one sitting in a chair, holding court and gulping down wine like a Colovian baron.

Still feeling rather chilly towards Vilkas, Brigida was grateful Farkas had tagged along. His ability to keep a conversation moving was certainly an underrated talent. He regaled them with tales of his love life, an amusing history that included both men and women, humans and elves.

“And I’ve been single since then,” he took a plaintive sip from his cup. “What about you, ladies?”

Brigida laughed harshly. “I was almost married once. In Daggerfall. I decided to leave instead.” She downed her cup of wine before getting up to pour a third. Her cheeks were burning. “And now I’m here with you fine people.”

“Lydia, you’re being awfully quiet,” Farkas pried. Only someone as friendly and likable as Farkas could be so shamelessly nosy.

“I--I’m seeing someone,” the housecarl said quietly.

“Does he live in Whiterun?” Farkas asked.

“Well,  _ she _ lives in Whiterun.”

Brigida could see Vilkas’s eyes widen in surprise, but Farkas continued to smile warmly. “Is she pretty?”

“Very,” Lydia answer coyly. She actually giggled a little bit. “Let’s change the subject?”

Farkas nodded. “We can talk about Vilkas’s love life instead.”

“Or lack thereof,” Vilkas said coolly. “There’s not much worth telling, brother.”

Brigida snorted, looking pointedly at Vilkas. 

“Really,” he continued. “I don’t have time for a relationship. I’m not a monk,” he quipped, looking right at her now. “But like I said, nothing worth talking about.”

“Boring,” Farkas laughed. “By the way, Vilkas. Did I tell you I saw Aela and Skjor together again?”

Vilkas smirked. “You know, he actually admitted it to me the other day.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. He’s just openly acknowledging it now I guess.”

“I knew they were together,” Brigida said.

“Everyone did,” Farkas replied. “Just surprised Skjor’s not trying to hide it anymore. He and Aela have been pretending nothing’s happening for years.”

“Skjor no longer cares about trying to live according to Kodlak’s rules,” Vilkas shrugged his shoulders dramatically.

“Are Companions not allowed to have relationships with each other?” Lydia asked the question that Brigida was now wondering.

“Not an official rule,” Farkas said, “but it’s… highly discouraged.”

Having finished that night’s food and two bottles of wine, the four Nords decided to sleep for the night. Brigida was warm and slightly dizzy as she settled into her bed roll. They took turns keeping watch that night, and Brigida had been assigned the fourth and final watch. When Farkas woke her, the sky was still dark with only the faintest hint of dusky purple along the eastern horizon. The cool dawn air felt refreshing against her slightly clammy skin. As she stared across the gorge from the top of the tower, her temples ached from the hangover she was no doubt developing.

She spent the next three hours drinking from her waterskin and eating snowberries and watching the sunrise over the mountains. The brightness and warmth of morning spread across the valley as Brigida’s companions began to wake up. Lydia first, Vilkas last. They packed up their camp and walked the horses back across the bridge. “It’ll be slower going today. We’ll be moving into the highlands as we go east, so expect a lot of uphill travel,” Vilkas explained to the three of them as they readied their mounts for the day.

“Think we’ll make it to Ivarstead by sundown?” Brigida asked, trying to ignore the tension in forehead.

“Ha, doubt it,” he shook his head. “If we take the Imperial highway it’ll be at least two more days of travel. Luckily, Farkas and I know a shortcut through the foothills.”

“Can we stop in Darkwater?” the taller twin asked excitedly. “See Annekke and Verner?”

“Maybe,” Vilkas answered. “Up to the whelp really. Some friends of ours live in a mining village near Ivarstead,” he added as an aside to Brigida.

“I didn’t know you had friends, Vilkas,” she grinned, staring down the road ahead. The cobblestones curved around the base of the Throat of the World, away from Whiterun’s bountiful steppe towards the sulfur pools and spruce forests of the Eastmarch taiga.

The wind whipped an errant strand of light brown hair into her face which she shoved back into her plait. She half expected Vilkas to roll his eyes or deliver a mean retort, but he gave her a wry smile instead. “I know it’s hard to believe, whelp, but some people actually like me.”

 


	11. Darkwater Crossing

“Is it Olfina Grey-Mane?”

“No.”

“Saadia from the Bannered Mare?”

“No.”

“Is it Ysolda?”

“Ugh, no.”

Vilkas wiped the condensation from his brow. It had become increasingly humid as they rode east. Mist saturated the air as they turned the bend near Fort Amol. Ahead of him, his brother was pestering the whelp’s housecarl. The whelp herself was to his right, scrunching up her nose as she squinted at the sky.

“Vilkas, is it raining?”

“It might be soon,” he studied the dark grey clouds along the southern horizon.

Under her breath, she cursed in Nibenese dialect.

“We’re close to Darkwater Crossing," he said. "If it gets bad, we can stop there. Annekke and Verner will put us up.”

“Right. Who are these people anyway?”

“Annekke was a Companion,” he explained. “She left when Farkas and I were just pups, married a man named Verner. They own a corundum mine down the road from here.”

They rode past the fort, all old stone and knobby conifers; archers in cornflower blue patrolled the outer walls. They watched the Companions warily, but did not take aim.

“Stormcloaks,” he muttered.

“My brother is a Stormcloak,” the whelp said quietly. “I don’t think he’s here, though. I think he’s in Dawnstar.”

“I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Vilkas admitted.

“I have two,” she said, a distant smile on her face. “And a sister.”

The rainfall thickened as they neared Darkwater Crossing. The small mining village had become a favorite stop for Vilkas and his brother whenever they took jobs in eastern Skyrim. Annekke had been like an older sister to them and the villagers were warm and hospitable.

As they rode past the miner’s bunkhouses, Vilkas noticed a pair of Stormcloak guards wandering the stone path. A new addition.

The mine was dark but dry. The air was thick with dust and metal. Vilkas quietly waved as Farkas greeted each miner by name. Darkeethus, the Argonian, told them Annekke and Verner were at the end of the mine.

They found the couple picking at a vein of corundum--or rather, Verner was while his wife gesticulated her way through a story. Verner was a plain-faced Nord who’d become only plainer as he entered middle-age. Annekke, with pale blue eyes and golden hair, looked about ten years younger than Vilkas knew her to be.

Farkas cleared his throat to announce their arrival. As soon as she spotted them, Annekke dropped her pickaxe and immediately wrapped her arms around both brothers. “Farkas! Vilkas! What in Oblivion are you lads doing here?”

“Just passing through, Annekke,” Farkas answered. “We’re on our way to Ivarstead, but we got caught in the rain.”

“I insist you both stay tonight,” Annekke said resolutely as stepped backwards to regard the twins. “Or all four of you, rather.”

“This is our newest shield-sister,” Vilkas said, motioning to the whelp. “Brigida Summer-Blade. And her housecarl Lydia.”

“Whelps have housecarls now,” Annekke quipped.

“I’m Thane of Whiterun?” his shield-sister sounded uncertain.

Annekke’s expression suddenly changed; a moment earlier she’d been cheerful and grinning, but now she looked concerned and uncomfortable. “I’ve been hearing some odd stories out of Whiterun,” she hissed, looking back to Vilkas. “Stories about dragons.”

“It’s all nonsense, I say,” Verner lifted his head up from his mining.

Vilkas and Farkas both looked at Brigida. He wanted to explain everything to Annekke, but it wasn’t really his story to tell.

“It’s okay,” Farkas whispered to the whelp. “They’re friends.”

“It’s true that the dragons have returned,” Brigida said slowly, carefully. Her hazel eyes blazed in the lantern light. “One destroyed Helgen, and another attacked a fort near Whiterun. The three of us,” she gestured Farkas and Vilkas, “fought it with the other Companions.”

“Why are you on your way to Ivarstead?” Annekke asked tentatively, as if she were afraid to hear the answer.

Brigida paused a moment, biting her lower lip. “Some people think I might be…  Dragonborn,” she said. “I guess we’re going to find out if that’s true or not.”

“See, Verner? I told you that was the Greybeards summoning the Dragonborn.”

“Possible Dragonborn,” her husband insisted.

Annekke rolled her eyes and led them out of the mine to an empty bunkhouse she said they could stay in. “Meieran and Dasturn are out of town. I’m sure they won’t mind,” she said as they set their packs and cloaks down.

Annekke lingered long enough to start up the fireplace for them. She updated them on her explorations of the area--she’d discovered a supernaturally beautiful grove of trees in somewhere in central Eastmarch. Still she was melancholy. Her daughter had moved to Shor’s Stone to work in an ebony mine over the summer.

“It’s fine for now, but she’ll never find a good husband down there,” the former Companion sighed. She was leaning against a scrubbed birch dining table; a tankard of ale had mysteriously materialized in her hand.

“Sylgja’s just a kid,” Farkas said.

“She’s nineteen,” Annekke said. “And I may be an unconventional mother, but I still worry about her prospects. A bad marriage can ruin a woman.”

Brigida laughed softly. “That’s a tough age for a girl.” The whelp was already supine in the lower level of one of the nearby bunk beds

“Wouldn’t know,” the older woman said wistfully. “I was already in the war when I was nineteen.”

Farkas and Vilkas departed with Annekke to help her finish her work in the mine. They left the whelp and the housecarl in the bunkhouse so they could wash up and get some rest. The whelp, in particular, had clearly drank far too much the night before. The two brothers helped the miners haul ingots, and when the rain stopped they chopped wood for the supper fire; all the while, they took turns sharing tales of their glory with Annekke. She was particularly keen when they told her about the dragon fight.

“Dibella’s tits, I wish I’d been there,” she sighed as she poked the hearth. They were sitting now in the main house, the twins drinking ale at the kitchen table. “Who got the killing blow?”

“Brigida,” Vilkas answered. “At least we think. She shot it right before it collapsed.”

“The Dragonborn,” Annekke smiled. “Pretty girl, but awfully quiet, isn’t she? You’d expect a hero of legend to be more… assertive.”

“She’s reserved,” Farkas noted.

“She’s hungover,” Vilkas barked with a wave of his hand. The three of them laughed, and Annekke recounted the time she and Skjor were on a job together and he was so nauseated from his exploits the previous night, he threw up on the contract and cost them both a considerable amount of coin.

“Remind me to brew her some juniper tea,” she mused. “So, you’re both going up to High Hrothgar with her?”

The twins nodded.

“I’ve walked the seven thousand step a few times myself,” she said. Of course she had. “Never actually met the Greybeards though. You’d better send a letter and tell me what they were like.”

Vilkas promised her he would.

 

Sulla cursed under his breath. A northern gale whipped around his cloak, bringing the smell of ice and sea water. It was only Hearthfire, but The Pale was already seeing frost overnight. He wished he were back in Chorrol, threshing grain on his uncle’s strip of land.

The Legion soldier had been observing the various movements in and away from Fort Dunstad for the past four days. The intelligence he collected was potentially useful; however, Sulla was largely posted near the Fort so he could be present to intercept an important missive--the weekly communication brief sent from the Stormcloaks of Dawnstar to their leader, Jarl Ulfric. The rebels did not trust common couriers with their most sensitive documents, so Sulla was waiting for a high-ranking scout to exit the structure.

Then, on a crisp Sundas, he saw his Stormcloak counterpart--a lean, sandy-haired Nord male with a hunter’s bow strapped to his back--leave the Fort’s tower and depart through a carefully concealed side door.

The Imperial muffled his feet and crept along the side of the road, his knuckles white against his steel mace. The rebel was lightly armored, so as Sulla drew close, he took a single swing at the back of his quarry’s skull and watched the other man collapse. As he looted the man’s pack and pockets for coins and potions and other small but valuable goods, he noticed the Stormcloak was still breathing. He’d either have to work fast or kill the Nord now--he knew the Legion would prefer the latter, but Sulla never had the stomach for throat-cutting. Immediately upon locating the Dawnstar missive, the Colovian soldier turned heel and sprinted west toward the bogs and forests of Haafingar, knowing that this latest success would impress General Tullius and Legate Rikke. _They’ll have no choice but to give me the Markarth job, now_ _,_ he thought, grinning as he raced back to Castle Dour.

 

That night they sat by the lake under the shimmering light of a gibbous, waxing Masser. The miners gathered around the campfire; one Nord woman had a young daughter who’d gathered mountain flowers as a gift for the travelers. Darkeethus the Argonian was telling jokes while a middle-aged Dunmer strummed at a lute. Brigida was quiet that night, watching thin clouds coil around the peak of the Throat of the World, trying to ignore her clammy skin and her thready pulse.

Breakfast was boiled eggs and dark bread delivered by Annekke at dawn. She showed them a mountain trail that would lead them straight to Ivarstead. “It’s steep and rocky,” she warned, “but it’s direct. You should be able to get there by afternoon.”

The terrain was indeed rough as they ascended into the highlands. The path was narrow and still muddy from the previous day’s rainfall. The rode single file that day, Brigida leading the pack. The Throat of the World loomed ahead. She felt her stomach flip at the the idea that tomorrow she would be climbing the seven thousand steps and meeting the Greybeards at High Hrothgar.

The followed the Darkwater River upstream, and as the road became steeper, the rapids became increasingly dramatic. A roaring waterfall greeted them as they approached the modest town of Ivarstead.

That afternoon, while Lydia and the twins were checking in to the inn, she wandered the stone paths that wound through the village, absorbing the brittle mountain sunlight. She stood near a bridge that led across the river. Her eyes followed the path, through the sparse and grass and toward the mountain, where she could see the first of many, many steps.

She sat by the waterfall and tried to clear her mind. It had been less than a month since 17 Last Seed. Her neck began to ache. In some ways, she’d been more scarred by her almost-execution than the dragon attack. That great black dragon at Helgen still felt like a fever dream, something from beyond reality; a Legion axeman coming within inches of killing her was all too real.

She was perched on the rocks by the river for what felt like minutes but must have been hours. Farkas had come searching for her. “Come back to the tavern, whelp,” he said. “It’s supper time and they’ve got roast venison.”

She followed him dutifully to the Vilemyr Inn where they’d rented a pair of rooms. “Have you ever noticed,” she asked Farkas as they entered the building, “that you and I always end up talking about food?”

“Who doesn’t love to eat?” the tall Nord chuckled.

Vilkas and Lydia had already ordered a round of ale and were picking at some type of appetizer. “You ought to go to High Rock someday,” she told him, sitting next to her housecarl. “The food there is incredible.”

“What’s wrong with Nordic cuisine?” Vilkas raised his brows. “We’ve got smoked trout here.” He motioned to the plate on the table.

Brigida took a small bite. It was salty and delicate and a little sweet. “That’s very good,” she agreed. “I _am_ a Nord, you know. I grew up here.”

“You grew up in Falkreath,” he teased, taking a drink of ale. “That’s practically in Cyrodiil.”

She rolled her eyes. Vilemyr was bustling with pilgrims and locals alike for the Sundas roast. The innkeeper, a balding Nord male, seemed a bit harried trying to keep up with all the orders. Near the hearth, a young brunette in a low-cut dress was singing and playing lute for a small crowd of mostly men.

The four warriors were quiet as they tucked into their meal of tender venison and root vegetables. It was the best meal she’d had since returning to Skyrim. She closed her eyes and listened to the final strains of “Ragnar the Red," her every sense comfortable and at ease.

When the tune was done, the bard sauntered over to their table. “You must be travelers,” she said though she was looking only at Vilkas. Her voice was clear and feminine.

“We’re from Whiterun,” Vilkas answered, barely looking up from his meal.

“Well, my name is Lynly and I work here at the inn. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you this evening,” she said with a wink.

Vilkas nodded curtly.

Once she left, Farkas punched his twin on the arm lightly. “Ysmir’s beard, brother. Ask her what time she gets off work tonight.”

Vilkas shrugged and stared into his ale. “Not interested.”

Farkas gave his brother an extremely skeptical look, but said nothing further as Brigida tried very hard not to smile.


	12. Seven Thousand Steps

Though he rarely assumed the beast form anymore, Farkas still enjoyed the enhanced senses that all lycans have. For instance, they were still below the treeline, but he could already smell the ice and snow of the mountain caps above. He could smell the mountain goats and bears living in the nearby pine grove. He could smell the whelp, who had grown progressively more nervous and fearful with each passing step. She smelled like he did when faced with a frostbite spider in dark cave. Farkas shuddered involuntarily.

She was remarkably good at hiding it, though. She led their group up the seven thousand steps without hesitation, an easy grin on her face.

Perhaps most odd, though, was his brother. Vilkas’ scent, familiar since birth, was marred by some fraught combination of lust and anxiety.

His brother liked the whelp.

Knowing Vilkas, and Farkas did, his twin was probably still in deep denial of this fact. Farkas himself couldn’t believe it at first, but he watched how Vilkas trailed her on the seven thousand steps, never more than two paces behind her, his posture tense and protective. He thought about his brother’s lack of interest in the pretty bard from the inn the night before, and the constant bickering and bantering with Brigida, which Farkas was fairly sure was Vilkas’ version of flirting.

They walked along the eastern face of the mountain. The village below had shrank and winds were thin and sharp. “You were going to tell me about the time you wrestled a bear,” Lydia said, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Oh yeah,” he laughed. “Well, the Companions get jobs for brawls and honor duels. Representing someone in a dispute who can’t fight for themselves. I do a lot of those. I’m a good duelist and a great brawler.”

“He’s not wrong,” Vilkas said over his shoulder. “My brother’s one of the best in Skyrim.”

Farkas beamed proudly. “Anyway, one day I get sent up to this tiny lumber village in The Pale. No more than a few dozen people living in the town. And they tell me they’re having a problem with this one bear.”

“And they wanted you to wrestle it?” Lydia asked incredulously.

“Well, she was a real old bear and had been coming around the village for years and folks used to feed her and look after her. And then she started getting ornery, knocking over fences, eating crops, harassing the livestock. That sort of thing. Asked ‘em if they’d meant to hire Aela; she’s the one you want if you need to kill a dangerous beast. Didn’t want me to take the bear out they said. Just wanted me to put her in her place with a brawl. So, I did.”

“Wait, you won the brawl?” Lydia’s brows were practically in her hairline.

Farkas rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Think she let me win, to be honest. She was strong. Coulda mauled me if she’d wanted to.”

He squinted. Ahead of him the whelp was walking backwards up the steps, laughing and muttering something to his brother. Vilkas smirked and told her to watch where she was going which only caused her to stomp in reverse more theatrically than before.

“I’m great at walking backwards,” she announced, her arms outstretched.

“This is how the world ends,” Vilkas replied. “Dragons devour us all because the Dragonborn slipped and cracked her head trying walk backwards up a mountain for no reason.”

She glared at him and turned around, her cloak swinging out around her.

Farkas shook his head. They’d been teasing each other like a pair of teenagers all day. From his periphery, he could tell Lydia was trying to catch his eye. He gave her a meaningful look and they slowed their pace a little.

“Five septims says they lay together before we return to Whiterun,” Farkas whispered to Lydia as they fell back from the others.

“Ten that it’ll happen while we’re still at High Hrothgar.”

 

Ludo woke up in the infirmary at Fort Dunstad--a long, dim, drafty room. He watched torchlight dance on the low stone ceiling above him, blinking twice as dull pain began to radiate from the back of his skull. _How did I get here?_ Ludo grabbed his sides of the cot below him and pushed his torso upright.

Thyra, a copper-haired healer in long robes and a prominent Talos amulet, dashed across the room towards him. “Summer-Blade, you’re awake,” she said breathlessly. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts,” he said while she swooped around him inspecting his eyes, feeling the pulse in his neck, the clammy, flushed skin on his forehead. “A lot.”

“Are you nauseous?” she asked.

“I suppose so,” he nodded. “What happened? The last thing I remember, I was headed to Windhelm.”

She clenched her jaw and broke eye contact with him, looking down and speaking in a low voice. “You were attacked. By an Imperial agent, we think. He knocked you out with a blow to the back of the head, then he stole your documents and all your supplies.”

Ludo groaned and held the bridge of his nose. “Banner-Torn will have my head for this.”

“Of course not,” she said softly. “This isn’t your fault.”

“The missive I was delivering was for Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. Now it lies in the hands of Imperial dogs,” he spat.

“Do try to relax,” she admonished. “You’re going to need bed rest for several days after an injury like you’ve had.” Thyra had placed her hands next to the base of his head. She grew silent as warm light flashed behind him, the familiar heat of healing magic spreading across her skull and down his spine. He shivered and exhaled heavily as she pulled back her hands. The pain remained, only marginally duller than before. He winced and frowned at her.

“It’s going to take time. Have patience, Summer-Blade.”

Ludo raked his hand through his sandy-blond hair before laying back down on his cot. “I’m not very good at that.”

 

Brigida drew her fur cloak tighter around her body. The sky was cloudless and bright, but snow swirled all around them, carried by the winds that snaked around the peaks of the the surrounding mountains. She looked to her right; the summit of the Throat of the World still seemed very far away.

“My face hurts,” she sighed as they trudged up another icy set of steps.

“Too cold for a southern girl like you?” Vilkas sniffed. They were walking side-by-side, several paces in front of Farkas and Lydia, who had become fast friends.

“This is too cold for anyone, Vilkas. Besides,” she narrowed her eyes at him, “aren’t you from Whiterun? It’s not much colder than Falkreath there.”

“Who knows, whelp. Jergen found us in Winterhold, so we might be Old Holders after all,” he smiled.

“You know what would warm us up?” she asked.  He turned to her, his left brow raised. “Ale.”

He laughed. “Come on, whelp. You’ve got to be sober when you meet the Greybeards.”

“Right, and if we start now I should be straightened out by the time we finally get there.” She looked up at the top of the mountain again, biting her lower lip.

“It can’t be that much farther,” he said, shaking his head. They had reach a flat stretch of the path that curved around the side of the mountain. As they rounded the corner, Vilkas and Farkas exchanged a dark look. “What is it?” she asked, but by the time the words left her mouth she could see what they were worried about.

Ahead of them, a frost troll stood on a nearby bluff, screeching and pacing back and forth. She drew her bow and began to launch arrows at the troll as her Vilkas, Farkas and Lydia ran forward, weapons drawn. She managed to stick several arrows in the beast’s chest before it leapt down toward her friends.

She sprinted up toward them where the three warriors were trading blows with the beast. Brigida watched as Lydia whacked the troll with her axe. The beast flailed, knocking Farkas sideways with its fist. Brigida dove forward, positioning herself behind the frost troll. As Vilkas and Lydia struggled to block and dodge the troll’s thrashing, she jabbed her sword deep into the troll’s back, penetrating its chest cavity. Lydia and Vilkas backed up as the troll fell forward, steel blade still between its ribs. Farkas had gotten back onto his feet, a thin line of blood trailing of his nose. The Companion lifted his greatsword and beheaded the troll with uncharacteristic ferocity.

“Wanted to make sure it was really dead,” the larger twin said, blood pooling around his otherwise sweet grin.

Vilkas gave his brother a healing potion and a rag to clean the blood off his face. Brigida pulled the sword out of the troll’s back accompanied by a stream of viscera and gore. Her already nerve-wracked body felt ill at the sight. She held back a gag as she ran her blade through a nearby snow pile several times. She shook it off before gingerly returning it to its sheath. Lydia, perhaps seeing her ill countenance, handed Brigida a waterskin which she gulped down.

Once Farkas’ nose had stopped bleeding, they continued up the mountain. Fortunately, as Vilkas had predicted, they weren’t very far from High Hrothgar afterall. Just as Brigida’s skin felt numb with cold and her feet sore from too much walking, she saw the great temple towering above them. High Hrothgar was carved from ancient stone in an old Atmoran motif. Her breathing hitched as she stood at the base of the final set of steps, those leading up to the temple. Vilkas hovered near her, his brow furrowed. His eyes were bright silver in the lemon-yellow afternoon sun.

Through layers of armor and fur, she felt his hand on her back. He leaned in close. “Akatosh chose you for a reason,” he whispered.

She looked behind her, Farkas and Lydia both nodding approvingly, gesturing for her to walk on. She swallowed hard and took the first step.

 

“So… a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age,” the Greybeard approached Vilkas and gave him a deep, formal bow. He was an old Nord, perhaps seventy, his silver-grey hair and beard both kept long and neat. His robes were plain but in fine condition.

Vilkas frowned and cleared his throat. “This is the Dragonborn,” he said tersely, motioning to the woman to his side.

“Of course,” the Greybeard said hastily, angling his bow towards her.

She lowered the fur hood of her cloak and returned his bow, a slightly suspicious look on her face. “I am Brigida Summer-Blade, Thane of Whiterun.”

The Greybeard crossed his arms across his chest, looking at the entirety of their group. “I confess I wasn’t expecting you to bring so many travel companions.”

“My apologies. These are my friends--Vilkas, Farkas, and Lydia--but I can have them return to Ivarstead in the morning if you wish,” she said, which made Farkas scoff quietly.

“Of course not,” the Greybeard insisted. Vilkas suspected she had been bluffing; no true Nord could refuse the call of hospitality, even an isolated order of monks on a mountain peak. “We can accomodate you all, naturally. But first, we must see if you truly have the gift, Dragonborn. Come, and let us taste of your voice.”

Vilkas could sense her pulse quickening as she walked with the Greybeard into the temple; he followed close behind. Three more Greybeards knelt at each corner of the room, eye closed in meditation. It was a dim space, stained glass and a few braziers were the only sources of illumination. Cold, too. Vilkas had pulled down his hood, but his fur cloak remained on his shoulders.

The Greybeard asked her to display her shout, and she sent him stumbling backwards with a single cry of “Fus!” Clay pots around the room rattled with the reverberations of her voice. It was the first time she’d used the thu’um since that night at the Watchtower. He could feel the power emanating from her. Her warm, dark eyes were flashing with gold.

All four Greybeards bowed down before her in unison.

“Dragonborn. It is you,” the first Greybeard said, his voice cracking in wonder. “Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir, and I speak for the Greybeards. Now tell me,” he asked, rising to feet, “why have you come here?”

 

Brigida tightened her jaw. She hadn’t expected to be asked such a question. “I… am answering your summons. I know little of the Greybeards.”

He paused for a moment, his pale blue eyes regarding her. “You stand in the temple of Throat of the World, Kyne’s sacred mountain. We are followers of the Way of the Voice, students of the thu’um.”

“Kyne gave the thu’um to mortals,” she said slowly.

Arngeir nodded. “That is correct. We commune here with the voice of the sky.”

She looked back at Vilkas who gave her a small, encouraging smile. “But Akatosh chooses the Dragonborn?”

The Greybeard massaged his chin for a moment. “We know not how the Dragonborn become what they are, but Akatosh was certainly involved in the original pact with Paravania.”

“But…” she stumbled, trying to think of an intelligent way to phrase her next question. “What does it mean to be Dragonborn?”

Arngeir’s eye widened and he chuckled lightly. “That is a large question with many answers. We will guide you in pursuit of answers just as we have guided Dragonborn past.”

“Other Dragonborn studied here, then?” she asked, genuine excitement finally overtaking fear and apprehension in her.

“You are not the first,” he said warmly. “We are not even certain you are the only Dragonborn of this age.”

“I read a prophecy,” she confessed, “in a book. It said something about the Last Dragonborn.”

“Many prophecies exist,” the Greybeard sighed. “It is difficult to know which are true. All we know is that you, and only you, have been revealed to us as Dragonborn.”

“And what of…” her voice trailed off again. “What of Alduin? Has he returned?”

“There is convincing evidence that he has,” Arngeir said carefully.

“I was at Helgen on 17 Last Seed,” she said. “The dragon there was massive and black with glowing red eyes.”

Arngeir gave her a grave look but said nothing.

“Am I fated to fight the World Eater?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The Greybeard frowned. “We can show you the Way, my child. But not the destination.”


	13. High Hrothgar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all those who are reading this story! You motivate me to continue writing :D

The Greybeards did not have formal chambers for them to sleep in, but plenty of space for all four travelers to lay down their packs and bedrolls. Brigida had set up a small camp for herself in a little alcove at the end of a long corridor. As covertly as possible, she changed out of her gear and into a long, loose dress made of slate blue wool. The quality of her clothing had improved exponentially since becoming Thane, she reflected as she tied a sash around her waist and slipped her stockinged feet into a pair of leather shoes.

She knelt by her pack, perusing the books and cookware and dried herbs she carried. Her fingers brushed across a small glass vial at the bottom of the bag and her heart skipped a beat. Sheogorath only knows why Brigida had decided to bring an aliquot of the Sleeping Tree Sap to the Throat of the World, but here it was. 

She sat on a stone ledge, her feet aching. Seven thousand steps they had walked, and she felt knew even less than before. Kodlak and Vilkas had convinced her the Greybeards would be able to answer her questions and guide her path, but the reality was closer to what Farkas had described--a bunch of old men who can’t talk.

Brigida stuck out her tongue, pouring a fat drop of Tree Sap onto its tip. It had the viscosity of honey and a very bitter taste which she had to wash down with a mouthful of water.

She wrapped herself in her fur cloak and laid herself down on her bedroll, waiting for the Sap to kick in. Brigida watch the dancing embers in the nearby brazier for what felt like an eternity, yet she still felt nothing. She paced down the corridor, catching glimpses of her friends. Lydia, repairing a dent in her armor. Farkas, napping on a bench. Vilkas, perusing a bookshelf. Brigida peered into the atrium of the temple, where the three silent Greybeards still knelt in meditation. She drew a deep breath, as she opened the rear door of the temple.

The night was more clear than she had ever seen it. The stars and moons reflected off the peak of the mountain, creating a warm, soothing glow everywhere around her. She knelt in the snow, a prayer to Kynareth on her lips. The winds picked up, carrying the glittering mountain snow all around her. Her limbs felt both heavy and loose as a warm wave of euphoria pulse through her veins. Her mind was racing with thoughts. Suddenly she understood that the gift of the thu’um was a sacred one, to the Nords from the Sky Goddess herself, to throw off the yoke of draconic oppression. So too was the Dragon’s Blood, a gift from Akatosh to Alessia, that great Nedic liberator. She searched the skies, her eyes landing on the figure of a rearing horse. Brigida gasped audibly. It was her sign, The Steed. Her Ma had always said she was an impatient child, taking her home with her wherever she went. She fell prostrate onto the cold, wet ground below her, briefly burying her face and hands in the snow. 

Brigida began to shiver. How long had she been out here on her knees? She reached up to feel her hair, which was covered in big, wet snowflakes. She started to laugh as she rose to her feet, walked across the courtyard, and returned to the temple. Once she was indoors, she realized her vision was saturated and distorted. Her fingers and toes were tingling. Perhaps the Tree Sap was working.

 

Vilkas found her wandering a corridor, covered in ice, her face flushed, her eyes wide. “Brigida, come on,” he said, pulling her into his alcove. He tried brushing the snow off her, but instead decided it might be more effective to simply remove her cloak and give her his. His hands brushed against her collarbones as he undid the clasp on her furs. She kicked off her wet leather shoes and pulled off her stockings, the flash of the pale skin of her calves drawing his eyes downward. He hadn’t seen her in anything but armor in days, and here she was, in a dress damp with snow that clung indecently at her bare legs. Vilkas willed himself to look away, turning to grab his own furs instead. 

He heard her teeth chatter as he wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. “You’re freezing,” he scolded her. “What were you doing out there, anyway?”

“Looking at the sky,” she giggled as they sat down on a nearby stone bench together.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

She paused for a moment and appeared to be deep in thought. She was fiddling with her braid, undoing it. “Maybe,” she said finally with a coy laugh. “I brought a secret bottle of Colovian brandy and I didn’t tell you.”

She spoke softly with her eyes close, and she seemed even more inebriated than that night at Valtheim Towers when she drank nearly an entire bottle of wine by herself. Vilkas clicked his tongue against his teeth. He wanted to tell her he was concerned, but he knew she would call him a hypocrite and she would be right. “Colovian brandy, eh? I don’t like that stuff anyway,” he sneered and she huffed. “Are you warming up?” he asked in gentler tone.

“My fingers are cold,” she whined theatrically, grabbing his hands and wrapping her icy fingers around his palms. “Have you any gloves?” 

“Only gauntlets, I’m afraid,” he said quietly, holding both her hands between his now.

“You’re very warm at least,” she sighed.

“That because I stayed inside tonight, like a sane person.”

“It’s beautiful out there, Vilkas. You can feel the presence of the gods all around us.”

“Just how drunk are you?” he asked, leaning forward, his smile crooked, his hands still wrapped around hers.

“Um, very? I guess I was feeling disappointed that we came all the way up here and the Greybeards have no real answers for me,” she said. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Vilkas.” Her hazel eyes met his pale grey, searching, longing.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised, his thumb stroking the topside of her hand.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when she tilted her chin up and kissed him, but he was. He let go of her hands, running his fingers through her hair, letting himself get lost in the taste of her for just a moment before he pulled his lips back. His forehead rested against hers; his heart felt like it was in his throat. He touched the smooth skin of her face before grabbing her hands once again. “We can’t,” he breathed. Vilkas leaned back. He saw the confusion and embarrassment in her eyes and immediately looked away. “You know we can’t, Bri. We’re Companions.”

“But,” she stammered. “Skjor and Aela--”

“It’s different for them,” he said flatly, staring at his lap. She pulled her hands away from his. “Believe me, this isn’t easy,” he pleaded, finally looking up at her.

Her face was blank, her eyes glossy. She nodded resolutely.

“I have to go,” she said, and her voice was small. She rushed out of his room before he could reply, his cloak still around her shoulders.

Vilkas lay on his side on the bench--the cool stone rigid against his limbs, the scent of her still in the air--wondering if there were ways in which he could have handled that situation any worse.

 

“You’ve done excellent work, soldier,” Legate Rikke said, and Sulla felt the pride building in his chest. He studied her well-appointed office at Castle Dour, the exact sort of office he aspired to have some day.

“Aye. Thank you, Legate” he saluted crisply.

“At ease. We’re so pleased with your work that General Tullius wants you back in Dawnstar as soon as possible to secure more intelligence.”

Sulla’s heart fell. “I thought I might be assigned to the Markarth job?” he asked hopefully.

“Dawnstar is our priority at the moment. It’s close to flipping and I’ve nearly convinced the General the time is right for battle. Besides,” she added, “Margret is going to Markarth. She’s a Breton and she’ll blend in better.”

Sulla scowled. He privately suspected Rikke favored Margret because they were both females in the Legion.

“I’m disappointed to hear that, ma’am,” the fair-haired Colovian said carefully.

“Join the club, kid,” Rikke shrugged. “Take the rest of the day off as a reward. I want you heading back to Dawnstar tomorrow. And, yes, that’s an order.”

 

“I say we get outta here and explore the mountain,” Farkas suggested to his brother and Lydia, a piece of toasted dark bread slathered in butter in his hand. The morning sun made the stained-glass exceptionally colorful, scarlet and amber light dancing across the faces of the three Nords. Brigida was spending the entirety of at least the next two days training with the Greybeards, leaving her companions to their own devices.

“I think I’m going to stay here,” Lydia said. “Thane Summer-Blade seems… troubled.”

Farkas studied his twin’s face for any hint of a reaction, but there was none.

“That’s okay,” Farkas said. “What about you, brother? Wanna hunt?”

“Actually, that sounds good,” Vilkas replied, staring thoughtfully at an apple. He seemed moody and tense, but that was normal for Vilkas. He stood up suddenly. “I have to get my cloak,” he muttered, disappearing down the corridor.

When he didn’t return, Farkas walked into the alcove where his brother had been sleeping. Vilkas wasn’t there, but pair of women’s shoes and white stockings were on the floor. Farkas raised his eyebrows and returned to the corridor where Vilkas was now walking towards him, furs already on his back. He was coming from the direction of Brigida’s room.

Her stockings on his floor, his cloak in her room.

Farkas muttered an especially profane bit of blasphemy. Lydia may have won the bet afterall.

“Have a good night last night, brother?” he asked as the two Companions left the temple.

“Not particularly,” Vilkas scowled, narrowing his eyes at the daylight. He seemed genuinely unhappy, and Farkas couldn’t detect the scent of sex on him. He smiled covertly. He was still in the running for those ten septims.

Vilkas was a lousy hunter, and Farkas was really only bringing him along for the company. His twin was the only person Farkas could be quiet around, the only person he never felt like he had to appease or entertain. The two brothers could spend hours walking at each other’s side, never speaking, but sharing everything. 

They descended the steps far enough that the snow was more scant with occasional shrubs growing next to the trail. “There’s a ram not too far from here,” Farkas said with a hearty sniff. They spent the afternoon tracking and trapping a big male goat with an impressive set of horns, which they then slaughtered and carried back to High Hrothgar.

By the time they returned to the temple, the sun was low in the sky and the air was becoming dangerously frigid. Farkas could see the faint outline of the two moons--Secunda was a slim crescent, but Masser was nearly full. He and his twin exchanged an uncomfortable look. Resisting the beast blood could be difficult even on the best of days. When one of the moons were full, the urge became even stronger.

“There’s no way we’ll be back in Whiterun by the time it’s full,” Vilkas said, a note of fear in his voice and in his scent.

“Have you never been away from home during a full moon?” Farkas asked. He was concerned for Vilkas who’d struggled with disturbing dreams and bouts of insomnia since he’d given up transforming.

“Not since I stopped turning,” he confessed. “I usually just hide in my room at Jorrvaskr all night.”

“We’ll figure it out, brother,” Farkas said reassuringly, clapping his twin on the shoulder, but Vilkas still looked anxious.

 

In the morning, Arngeir had given Brigida a long lecture on the Greybeards and their ways. The thu’um, he explained, was really only intended to praise and exalt the gods. To use it for warlike purposes or the acquisition of power violated the Way of the Voice, the code by which the Greybeards lived. These principles could all be attributed to Jurgen Windcaller, a Tongue from the old times and founder of the Greybeards.

“Am I supposed to follow your Ways?” she asked.

“I hope you’ll not use your voice to create more strife and chaos in the world,” Arngeir advised. “But Akatosh bestowed the Dragon’s Blood upon you for a reason, and I suppose there may come a time where you must use the thu’um for purposes outside of our typical purview.

“And yet,” he continued on, “the balance and harmony that the Way of the Voice cultivates is the only true way to master the thu’um. It is my hope that you will join us in worship and contemplation here on the mount.”

Brigida smiled, remembering the non-mortifying part of the previous night. “Kynareth’s presence is strong here,” she said.

“This is her domain,” the Greybeard said wistfully.

That afternoon, one of the other Greybeards, Master Einarth, taught her a new shout,  _ Ro,  _ which combined with  _ Fus _ to make an even more powerful force. He seemed impressed by the ease with which she learned the thu’um. To her, it was similar to learning a foreign language.

“That’s the Dragon’s Blood,” Arngeir told her after she showed him her new shout. “Your capacity to learn the thu’um cannot be matched. But you must have discipline and dedication if you want to be a master.”

The whole second day of her training was dedicated to learning a shout called  _ Wuld _ or Whirlwind Sprint, a word that carried her forward at dizzying speed. It took many attempts to figure out how to harness the spell without crashing into a pile of rocks.

She avoided Vilkas in the evenings, instead pouring over the history books Master Arngeir had loaned her. He and Farkas had won over the Greybeards with a generous offering of stewed goat meat. She couldn’t bring herself to speak to him since their disastrous interaction the night of their arrival. Brigida was humiliated and furious at herself; she’d kissed him and ruined everything. 

And, even worse, she couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that Vilkas wasn’t necessarily unreceptive to her advances, that his objections were more because of some pointless unwritten rule of the Companions. 

_ No. It’ll never happen, _ she thought, watching him during supper in the atrium of the temple.  _ He’d jump off the roof of Jorrvaskr if Kodlak Whitemane told him to _ . 

Lydia was her rock at High Hrothgar. Her housecarl provided constant, if quiet, companionship during her training and studying. She cleaned Brigida’s armor and patched up her injuries after a day of Whirlwind Sprinting around the courtyard. They talked sometimes, in evenings, about their shared girlhoods on farms.

“All that apple picking,” Brigida said, “that’s why you’re so strong.”

“And I suppose you learned stealth by hiding in a henhouse?” Lydia asked.

“Something like that,” she replied. “That and skulking around the scullery. My family lived in a manor house, but we were too cash-poor to keep servants, so I had so do all the washing.”

“How tragic,” Lydia said sarcastically.

Brigida laughed. “I know, I know. To hear my mother talk of it, having to live like ordinary folk is the worst thing that ever happened to her.” 

Brigida’s stock were mostly low gentry, and for most of her life she didn’t think it had given her any advantages. Her mother complained incessantly throughout her youth about how poor they were--a message Brigida couldn’t help but internalize. It was only after she ran away and saw real poverty that she understood how comfortable her upbringing had actually been. Coming back to Skyrim threw the situation into sharp relief; she was fairly certain that she’d be neither a Companion nor Thane of Whiterun were she not Adalbert Summer-Blade’s daughter.

On the third morning, a concerned Farkas approached her at breakfast and asked when they were planning to leave the temple.

“Soon, I imagine,” she said vaguely, chewing on a bit of flatbread. Master Arngeir was waiting for her by the courtyard doors.

“It’s just, Vilkas and I need to get back to Whiterun eventually.”

“You can leave tomorrow morning,” the Greybeard interjected, clearly having overheard their conversation. “Today we will synthesize what you’ve learned thus far,” he added. “After that, the next phase of your training will take place at Ustengrav, the Tomb of Jurgen Windcaller. There you will face a trial that will sharpen your abilities as a Tongue.”

“So we’re going on another trip?” Farkas asked.

“The trial at Ustengrav must be completed by the Dragonborn and only the Dragonborn,” he answered. He looked at to Brigida. “You cannot bring any of your companions into the tomb.”

“Why does she have to go alone?” Vilkas demanded hotly.

“This is meant to be a test for the Dragonborn.” The Greybeard now sounded rather annoyed. “Come to the Courtyard, and we will continue your training,” he said, beckoning to Brigida.


	14. Vilemyr Inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very Vilkas chapter. I upped the rating to E, and just a head's up there is some ~NSFW~ content in the very last section of this chapter, so warning if you're not into that kind of thing.

Farkas lifted the largest of the four packs onto his back. By far the strongest of the group, he was happy to carry some of the bulkier supplies they traveled with--tents and iron pots and the like. The four of them stood on the steps in front of High Hrothgar with Master Arngeir. It was the fourth and final morning their group would wake up at the mountain top temple.

“Is there, um, a deadline for me to return with the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller?” the whelp asked the Greybeard.

“I’m certain you’ll want some time to ready yourself before the trial,” he replied. “Feel welcome to take a few weeks to prepare as you see fit. And do remember, Dragonborn, that you must complete this trial alone.”

“I’m aware,” she said, shooting a quick glance at Vilkas, as if to warn him to not have another outburst in front of the Greybeard.

Arngeir bid them farewell and they began their long trek back to Ivarstead. Walking down the mountain was far easier than walking up. They were warm and well-fed during the harshest, coldest part of the trail. And yet, they were also quieter as a group than they had been just a few days prior. His brother and the whelp seemed be avoiding one another. She was walking far ahead of them with her housecarl.

Farkas wasn’t sure what had happened there. Perhaps they’d have an argument of sorts. Whatever happened, he caught the whelp staring--furtively, longingly--at Vilkas many times while they were at High Hrothgar while his twin seemed to be incapable of even looking at her.

They walked further down the mountain. There was no longer snow on the trail, and thin birch trees lined the sides of the path. Farkas could hear the songs of birds and could smell the fauna becoming more numerous. The air remained cold, but it didn’t numb his face as they walked anymore.

“Masser will be full tonight,” his brother said darkly.

“Good thing we’re spending the morning walking down a mountain,” Farkas said. “My advice? Do everything you can to wear yourself out so you can try to be asleep during the night. Won’t have to deal with the worst of the cravings that way.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Vilkas frowned.

“If this walk doesn’t tire you out, there’s other stuff we can do. Afternoon of backbreaking work, and an evening of mead and women should do the trick.”

Vilkas laughed and Farkas felt himself exhale in relief. His twin’s tension was his own.

“Suppose I could see if that bard is still in town,” Vilkas grinned wolfishly.

“Lucky bastard, you’ve got your choice between her and the whelp,” Farkas laughed.

Anger flashed across Vilkas’ face as he stopped in his tracks. “I think you’re mistaken about something, brother,” he growled. “There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Sorry,” Farkas said. “Guess I misread the signs.”

“Yeah, guess you did,” Vilkas said shortly. Farkas winced a little. His twin then let out a heavy sigh as they continued walking forward. “Fuck it, I’m sorry, brother. I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about me and her.”

 

“Double rooms are all booked up, so we’ll have to each rent a single room,” Brigida grimaced slightly as she opened her coin purse. Good thing they were only staying in Ivarstead for one more night.

“Little privacy sounds nice,” Farkas said. “Could use a bath.” The two of them had been tasked with booking rooms at the Vilemyr Inn and dropping off their packs while Vilkas and Lydia checked in with their horses at the stables.

“We all could,” she nodded in agreement.

“Say, is there any work available in town?” Farkas asked the innkeeper. Brigida cocked an eyebrow. They’d been walking for hours and now he wanted work?

“We’re not that light on coin,” she whispered to him and he smiled but did not reply.

“Temba always needs a strong back or two down at the lumber yard,” the innkeeper replied. It was the same middle-aged Nord man from a few days earlier.

Farkas nodded and thanked the man, and the two went to put away the packs. “Why are you looking for work?” she hissed at him.

Farkas frowned, looking more like Vilkas than usual. “Masser is full, whelp. Gonna be a rough night for my brother and me unless we can manage to tire ourselves out enough to sleep.”

“I didn’t know the moon had such a strong effect on your lycanthropy.”

“Makes it hard to not turn. You have these… urges,” he said. “Vilkas gets it worse than me.”

She patted his arm sympathetically. “Do you want you need to do, then.”

 

Vilkas and Farkas were hauling two bears they had slain near the banks of the Darkwater River. Temba Wide-Arm at the lumber mill had taken one look at the two warriors and decided their talents would be better suited to taking care of the beasts that harassed her workers than hauling logs or chopping wood. Bear hunting had the advantage of being both exhausting and appeasing to the bloodlust of the wolf within him. But still, Vilkas could feel his muscles twitch beneath his skin, his desire to turn growing stronger as the day grew long.

“I need about a hundred tankards of mead, but perhaps after that I’ll be able to rest,” he sighed as he and Farkas returned to the Vilemyr Inn.

“Might just take a bath and go to bed,” his brother yawned. Farkas looked tired as most people would be had they been up since dawn.

Vilkas nodded. “That’s alright, brother. I’m sure I’ll be able to find someone to drink with.” Farkas nudged him gently before they went to their separate rooms. Lydia and Brigida were eating their supper by the hearth. Near the bar, Lynly, the pretty bard from the other night, was playing a jaunty tune on her lute.

Vilkas removed his armor and washed up in his room, cleaning the sweat and grime from his body and washing his dark, thick hair. After he dried off and changed into a plain linen tunic and a pair of dark breeches, he returned to the main hall of the inn. Lynly waved at him from across the room and he returned the gesture.

Brigida was sitting alone now, pouring over a stack of books, a half-eaten plate of food and a mostly untouched bottle of mead in front of her. Vilkas approached her, his hands in his pockets.

“You want any help with that?”

He was relieved when she turned and smiled at him. “Please,” she said, pulling out a chair for him. “I’m rather lost right now.”

Vilkas sat down and gave her a crooked smile. “I meant with the mead, but I can take a look at those books as well.”

She laughed and gently hit him on the arm. It felt good to be able to talk with her again after so many days of awkward silence. “Go ahead,” she said, pouring him a glass.

Brigida’s eyes widened as he gulped down the entire thing in one go. She poured him another. “You okay?”

“What’s the book about?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Theology,” she whined, rubbing her eyes and angling the book towards him. “Did you know some Imperial scholars think Alduin is just the Nord version of Akatosh?”

Vilkas snorted. “I’ve read that before, yes. It is, obviously, not true.”

He helped her read through the next chapter of her book as he picked at her food and drank more of her mead.  Vilkas couldn’t help but notice that her new clothes were better tailored to the curves of her body than the rags she used to wear; he still remembered the first time he saw her, in worn a peasant dress and mismatched armor she’d probably looted off corpses from--well, he didn’t know where she’d come from. Her life before Helgen was still mostly a mystery to him. He realized he was staring and shook his head, returning to the crust of bread he’d been chewing on. During the meal he’d been relaxed and preoccupied, but somewhere in the middle of his third glass of mead, he began to feel the familiar twitchy energy of the beast blood.

“But then why do they call him the son of Akatosh if they’re both aspects of the same--what is it?--oversoul?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts, flipping through the pages of the tome. “Vilkas?” He hadn’t been listening to anything she’d said for the past few minutes.

“I think that’s just an old colloquialism,” he said hastily, “er, the son of Akatosh bit. Hey, um.” Vilkas suddenly found himself tongue tied. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course,” she said, meeting his gaze. He watch the firelight dance in the forest green and golden swirls in her hazel eyes.

“Like somewhere private?” he clarified.

She looked around the mostly empty tavern. “Okay, we can go to my room I suppose,” she said with suspicion, but grabbed her books and pulled a brass key from her pack. He followed her across the hall, mesmerized by the sway in her hips.

“What did you want to talk about?” she asked as he closed the door behind them. His eyes traced the way her leather bodice nipped in at her slim waist, the way her skirt draped over her hips.

He stepped closer towards her and lowered his voice. “I need you.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “What do you need?”

He leaned over and kissed her, gently at first but with more intensity when he sure she was receptive. She wrapped her arms around him, and his hands were buried in her hair. He moved from her lips down to her neck, the hot, coppery taste of her pulse on his tongue. He could feel her breath rising in her throat. “Vilkas, but--” she panted, which only deepened his desire for her. “I thought you said you didn’t want to.”

“No, I said we shouldn’t,” he corrected, pulling back his head and looking her in the eyes. “I do want you, Bri. I’ve wanted you for weeks now.”

She looked conflicted. “But why--?”

“It’s a dumb rule, anyway,” he continued reassuringly. “Not even a rule, just a convention, really.”

Her brows furrowed as if she couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Farkas told me about the full moon,” she placed her hand firmly on his chest, establishing a barrier between the two of them. “Is that why you changed your mind?”

He took a step back from her. “I’m restless,” he confessed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “It’s impossible to sleep, to even sit still. Every second my mind is idle, I am consumed by the drive to turn.”

“Look, if you only want me because of the beast blood--”

“I need to fuck,” he interrupted her bluntly. “And you’re the one I want. But if you’re not interested, well, I’m quite sure I can find someone else.”

“This is your attempt to convince me to sleep with you?” she scoffed.

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” Vilkas said quietly, trying to quell any irritation in his tone. “Those are the facts. After what happened the other night, I thought you might want me too, but if I was mistaken, I can leave,” he gestured to the door behind him, “and we can go back to pretending none of this ever happened.”

They stared into each other’s eyes in silence for a moment before he broke away and began to turn around.

“Wait, Vilkas,” she said. He stopped and she grabbed his forearm. Her grip was tight. She wasn’t quite looking at him directly and he could see the faintest hint of a blush across her freckled cheeks. “Please, stay.”

She walked backwards, leading him to the bed behind her. Vilkas felt his heart quicken as she invited him to sit down.

He sat on the edge of her mattress. She was standing so close to him now, her feet planted in between his; her expression was unreadably neutral, though he could smell her arousal.

Time seemed to slow as he watched her fingers unlace the front of her bodice, the ties on her skirt. She undressed at a pace so leisurely Vilkas considered it a form of torture. The shape of her body was barely visible through the thin white linen shift she wore under her clothes. He had to fight the urge to rip it off from her.

Instead, he ran his hand just under the hem, feeling the smooth and firm flesh of her thighs, studying her toned, lithe frame. Her tattoos poked out from the edges of the shift, the elegant swirling design on her right shoulder, the cruder, darker emblems on her left forearm.

He tugged at her linens. “Take this off,” he said.

She shook her head coyly. “Then I’ll be completely naked and you’ll be fully dressed,” she crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not very fair.”

He smirked at her and pulled off his tunic.

 

Brigida inhaled sharply at the sight of him. With his shirt off, she could finally see his lean yet muscular form, the veins in his forearms, the patch of dark chest hair than ran down to his firm abdominal muscles. They didn’t make men like this in High Rock. Nor Cyrodiil for that matter. Perhaps she’d made a mistake leaving Skyrim all those years ago.

She knelt on the bed, straddling his lap. Through his breeches Brigida could feel his cock, already half-firm and poking against the back of her thighs. She leaned forward and kissed him deeply, and he moaned as his tongue explored her mouth. The stubble along his broad jaw scratched against her face. Vilkas wrapped his arms around her, his strength holding her steady as he nipped at the side of her neck and sucked on her earlobes, making her quiver in his lap. One of his hands roamed up the bottom of her shift, his rough fingers caressing the side of her hip. He pulled up the hem of her only remaining garment, and she lifted her arms above her head, allowing him to remove the shift from her body. Brigida watched his silver-grey eyes travel across her nude form with a primal hunger. He kissed her breasts, licking at each of her nipples until she was panting. He then lifted up her body and laid her down on the bed before jumping to his feet. As Vilkas began to fully undress himself, she spread her legs open, letting him see all of her. “You’ve wanted this for a while then?” she asked, watching as he undid the buckle on his belt.

“Since the first time we fought,” he said, his fully erect cock springing free from his breeches. “You were so quick, so vicious,” he approached the bed, positioning himself between her knees. “You have this wild energy about you.”

Brigida cried out as he touched the hot wetness between her thighs. “I want to fuck you, but first I need to know how you taste,” he said as he head began to lower. She nodded at him, parting her legs further.

He groaned and his tongue began to lick and tease her. Her fists clenched the blanket below her as her body stiffened in pleasure. Vilkas held her thighs firmly, keeping her in place when her legs started to squirm. He maintained steady but relentless precision as she cried out in ecstasy, the warmth and tension building up within her. His grip on one of her thighs loosened and she felt his finger slide inside her, pumping in and out of her as his mouth continued to tease her clit. Her pulse was racing. “Vilkas,” she breathed, her thighs tightening around his ears, “you’re gonna make me come.”

He moaned in affirmation, increasing his speed and intensity until she was shaking and calling out his name. Her entire body seized up as she came. Vilkas lifted up his head as her orgasm subsided, a look of awe on his face. Her limbs were weak.

“I want you now,” he said hoarsely, and she looked down at him. His hand was still between her thighs, fingers barely grazing her wet slit. His cock was so hard it was bobbing up and down, pre-come glistening on its head.

She inhaled slowly and stretched out before him. “I’m yours,” she smiled at him. “Take me, Vilkas.”

He bit his lower lip, taking in the sight of her. “Turn over,” he told her, and her smile turned into a giggle. She rotated her body, her knees pressed into the mattress, leaning on her forearms for support. He groaned approvingly as his hands massaged her back. “By the gods, woman,” he breathed. “Are you aware you’ve got the most perfect ass?”

Brigida laughed into a down pillow below her. “Is that so?” she said, pushing herself back towards him until the head of his cock was brushing against her opening.  In truth, she’d heard that compliment before, but Vilkas didn’t need to know that.

She gasped as he teased her with the tip of his cock, and she heard him mutter a string of obscenities. He entered her with a slow, deliberate motion; she buried her face in the pillow. Brigida could felt him stretching her out to accommodate his size. It had been months since she’d been with a man and Vilkas was certainly not small.

“Go slow,” she whimpered as felt his length fill her up. Brigida looked back at him from the corner of her eye. Vilkas smiled at her--that same crooked, insouciant smirk that he had been taunting her with since the day they had met--and obliged her request, controlling his pace, at least at first. As she felt her body relax, he started to fuck her harder and faster. His fingers dug into the sides of her hips. She tried to stifle her moaning with the pillow--the sound of the bed creaking below them, of his body slamming into hers was loud enough.

Brigida lowered her chest into the mattress, arching her back and tilting her hips upward. Vilkas fucked her with renewed intensity, growling when she clenched her muscles against his shaft. He reached one of his hands forward, pulling back a handful of her hair. Her head jerked backwards, the sudden jolt of pain causing her to lose control. His grip on her ass tightened. Her eyes fluttered shut, and a second orgasm hit her body like a wave. He held onto her as she trembled and stiffened and then fell limp in his arms, thrusting into her all the while. “Vilkas” she mumbled his name sweetly, staring back at him, still dazed from pleasure.

“Oh fuck,” he swore, looking her in the eye, an almost pained expression on his face. Brigida gasped when she felt his cock pull out of her, followed by the heat of his seed on her lower back. Vilkas exhaled heavily, collapsing on the mattress next to her.

By the the time she’d finished cleaning herself off in the washbasin, he had already fallen asleep in her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swore when I plotted this story I wasn't going to write smut but then it happened lol


	15. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all the readers and commenters. <3

Brigida’s arm was asleep, pins and needles down to her hands. Vilkas had draped his body over hers during the course of the night, their legs entwined, his arm around her torso, his face nestled in the space between her neck and her shoulder. He was sleeping so deeply, so peacefully that she was loathe to move and wake him. She watched his eyelids twitch in slumber, wiggling her fingers to bring back some circulation.

Slowly, she extracted her arm from under him, sliding out of his embrace. She shivered as her bare feet crossed the stone floor. It was early, barely dawn, but they needed to leave soon if they wanted to make good time back to Whiterun. Brigida dressed in the more masculine clothes she wore under her armor--breeches and boots and a thigh-length tunic. She put on her quilted gambeson for warmth, but left her mail and plate pieces off for the time being as she began tying her long hair into a single neat plait.

She was packing her bags when Vilkas began to stir. Brigida watched him blink sleepily in the morning light, his ice-grey eyes peeking out from his thick, dark lashes. “What time is it?” he grumbled.

“Half past sunrise, I’d say,” she shrugged. “You should start packing, so we can get a move on.”

“By the fucking Nine,” he cursed, jumping out of bed, still very naked. “Is my brother out there?” he asked, pointing at the door.

“How should I know? I’ve been in here all morning.” She turned to face him, watching him wriggle into his shirt.

“He wakes up early,” Vilkas muttered. He found his breeches under the bed and pulled them on. “Sorry, I just,” he stammered and finished buckling his belt. He looked deep into her eyes. “Listen, I can’t thank you enough for last night. You’re really…” his voice trailed off, rubbing his face with his hands. “But we can’t let anyone back in Whiterun know about this--”

“I know, I know,” she cut him off curtly. _Gods, he’s bad at this._ “But it’s just Farkas and Lydia. If they find out, we can tell them to keep quiet about it.”

He furrowed his brows, clearly uncertain about the idea. “My brother likes to talk.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment as he laced up his boots. “Could you go out there and distract him so I can go back to my room?”

Brigida rolled her eyes. “Fine. If he’s out there, I’ll send Farkas to the well to refill the waterskins or something. And don’t worry about my housecarl; she’s oathbound to keep my secrets.”

 

“Well, it looks like you won the bet, my friend,” Lydia sighed and opened her coin purse as Farkas joined her for breakfast in the great hall of the Vilemyr Inn. He nodded vigorously.

“Yeah, I heard ‘em, too. Inn’s got thin walls. Tell you what,” the large Nord said with a cheeky smile. “Tell me who your secret girlfriend in Whiterun is and you can keep those ten septims.”

Lydia laughed coyly and passed Farkas a stack of coins. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“You’re killing me, housecarl.”

A door across the hall opened as Thane Summer-Blade left her room, carefully closing it behind her. She was neatly groomed and dressed for travel, waving cheerfully as she approached Farkas and Lydia.

“Oy. Farkas, could do me a huge favor?” she asked, beaming widely.

Farkas shot Lydia a meaningful look. “What kinda favor?”

“Could you go to the town well and refill the waterskins? It’s one of the last things we have to do before we’re packed for the day.”

It was a strange request, but Farkas nodded and obliged the Thane, leaving the tavern to fetch water. Brigida was picking at the porridge Farkas had been eating when Lydia saw the door to her room open for a second time; a dishevelled Vilkas slipped out and crept back to his own room.

Lydia cleared her throat. “Farkas already knows, my Thane,” she said as delicately as she could manage.

Brigida looked over her shoulder towards Vilkas who was fumbling the lock on his door. “Damn it all to Oblivion,” she said. “I knew we were too loud to keep it a secret,” she mumbled, a blush spreading across her freckled face. “I trust you’ll be discreet about this when we get back to Whiterun.”

 

Farengar had proven to be a more useful source than Delphine had anticipated, giving her both the name and known background of the young warrior purported to be the Dragonborn. Whiterun was swimming with rumors about the supposed identity of Skyrim’s hero of legend. Farengar had good reason to believe that the Jarl’s newest Thane, a Companion mercenary named Brigida Summer-Blade was the one spotted shouting.

“Summer-Blade is a Falkreath clan, and a minor one at that, so it was a bit suspicious when he named her Thane of Whiterun. A week later, she was on the road to Ivarstead with her housecarl and a pair of shield-brothers,” the mage said, his hood still up despite the fact that they were in Delphine’s secret room below the inn.

“Yes, those twins. Many in Whiterun seem to think it’s actually one of them or even the housecarl who is the real Dragonborn, and that Summer-Blade is just a ruse.”

“Perhaps,” Farengar said slowly. “But she was the one dining with the Jarl and the Harbinger the day after the dragon attacked the watchtower.”

Delphine pursed her lips in consideration.

“If she’s a Companion, then I’ll have to get her to come to me,” she said. “There’s no way Kodlak Whitemane will let me get anywhere near her.” Her mind raced with possible plans to intercept the Dragonborn. If Summer-Blade left for Ivarstead last week, her next stop would likely be Ustengrav, to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Delphine smiled privately; it had been ages since she’d broken into an old Nordic tomb.

 

The innkeeper in Ivarstead had shown them an alternate route, one that led over the foothills back to Whiterun Hold. It was a long and exhausting ride up and down a winding dirt path. The sun was already setting as they reached the cobblestones of the old Imperial road. The familiar White River gorge stood before them, and the forests and hills of the western Rift gave way to a golden steppe. They traveled until dark, after which they set up camp and enjoyed a final night of eating by the fire and slept heavily under the stars.

Lydia departed from the group the next morning. Her father lived nearby, and she wanted to visit him, which Brigida was happy to allow. She genuinely liked Lydia, but there was something oddly intrusive about the whole practice of having a housecarl, someone sworn to follow you and protect you.

The three Companions were back in the city by mid-afternoon. Brigida’s heart jumped as they climbed the steps of Jorrvaskr together, the withered Gildegreen behind them, the sound of Heimskr’s daily sermon echoing across the plaza. She had only lived in Whiterun for a month, but it already felt like home. She a grin spread across her face as she walked through the doors of Jorrvaskr.

Njada, Athis, Ria, and Torvar were sitting in the great hall, all in various states of distress. Ria appeared to be silently crying. Torvar was slumped over a flagon of ale. Njada was yelling at Athis, gesticulating angrily at the Dunmer, who was sitting on the floor, silent, eyes closed.

“This is bullshit,” the platinum-haired Nord spat. “We deserve to know what’s going on.”

“What happened?” Farkas asked, as looking deeply alarmed as they entered the room.

The four whelps all looked up at their newly returned shield-siblings. “You three are finally back?” Njada scowled.

“What happened?” Vilkas repeated, more forcefully than his brother.

“It’s Skjor,” Ria said miserably. “Someone attacked him and he’s badly injured. He and Kodlak and Aela have been locked up in his room all day. The Priestess has been here twice already. And no one will tell us anything.”

The twins exchanged a dark look and the three of them rushed down to the basement quarters. Skjor’s door was locked when they reached it. Vilkas knocked loudly. “Open up,” he barked, “it’s me and Farkas.”

The lock clicked and the door opened slightly, the Harbinger’s face peering at them. “You’re back! Come in here at once, both of you,” he insisted. “Circle only, I’m afraid, my girl,” he added to Brigida. She had been expecting as such, and had only followed the twins down in hopes of catching a glimpse of Skjor.

“No,” she heard a gruff voice in the distance. It was Skjor. “Let her in. She already knows.”

Kodlak sighed reluctantly but opened the door. Skjor was in bed, his chest and left shoulder wrapped in bandages. Aela sat in a chair next to him, bleary-eyed but upright.

Vilkas sniffed. “Silver burns.” His hands clenched into fists. “Who did this to you?”

“Who do you think?” Skjor said weakly. “Silver Hand, brother.”

“They ambushed him,” Aela said. “Just like they did to you, Farkas. The silver burns he sustained will take weeks to heal. He could have died,” she choked a little on her words.

Brigida knew that silver weapons were especially effective against lycans, though she was unfamiliar with the term “silver burn.” Vilkas and Aela had both shuddered a little when they said it.

“There’s more,” Aela said solemnly. “We found out who’s been leading this Silver Hand.”

“It’s Krev,” Skjor said, laughing a little before it turned into a dry cough.

“After all these years,” Vilkas said, the edge of a growl on his voice.

“Makes sense she’s going after Arnbjorn,” Farkas noted.

“Ha! By the time she left, she hated me almost as much as she hated him,” Skjor said.

Brigida wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about, but she also didn’t think it was appropriate to ask them to clarify.

Kodlak frowned, looking at Brigida and the likely confused look on her face. “Er, we really should only be discussing this in front of the Circle. These are sensitive matters. Please don’t let the other whelps know more than they need to,” he said to her.

“Can I at least tell them he’s going to be okay? Everyone’s really worried up there,” she said, looking at Skjor. A muted smile tugged at his lips.

“Yes, that would be appropriate,” Kodlak said. “You and I shall meet tomorrow and discuss your trip to Ivarstead. In the meantime, the rest of us need to meet as a Circle. I’m sure you understand.”

“I do,” she said, trying mask her disappointment. She looked at Skjor one last time as she backed towards the doorway. “I’ll let everyone know you’re not dead yet.”

 

“Thank you, my lady,” the elderly washer woman smiled graciously at Delphine as she accepted a small bag of coin. They were in Falkreath, Delphine’s final stop before leaving for Ustengrav, in the woman’s one-room home, the scent of soap and linen thick in the air.

“No. Thank you, Magda,” the Breton said. “And there’s more if you can give me a little information on some folks here in Falkreath.”

“Oh well, I don’t know much,” Magda replied. In reality, the woman was a notorious gossip, and as a laundress, she was constantly in and out of other people’s homes. She was full of information, and she loved to share it. Delphine had selected her as a source for a reason.

“That’s alright, dear. I’m wondering if you know anything about clan Summer-Blade.”

Magda’s pale blue eyes lit up. “They’re an infamous lot in these parts. Used to be great traders, landholders, and even Thanes came from clan Summer-Blade. But they lost a lot in the Great War--coin, land, sons. Then about ten years back, there was a scandal involving the nephew of a Jarl, and they faded into obscurity.”

“What kind of scandal?”

“The Jarl’s nephew and heir was betrothed to the eldest Summer-Blade girl. The marriage would have returned the clan to prominence while legitimizing the Jarl’s heir’s claim to a Hold he barely knew. Then, weeks before the wedding, the boy was caught in bed with his fiancee’s younger sister. The wedding was called off, and the girl--the little sister--disappeared.”

“What happened to her?”

“Little Britta Summer-Blade, that was her name. No one really knows what happened to her. Some folks say they shipped her off to Cyrodiil to live with relatives. Others say she ran away of her own volition. There were plenty of nastier rumors, too--that the girl died, either by her own hand or at the hands of her brothers as punishment for dishonoring the clan.”

Delphine’s mind was racing. Britta. Reminded her of a Reacher she once knew, a woman in the Blades called Brid, short for Brighid. _It’s a different name in every land_ _,_ she’d said. Brighid in the Highlands. Brigitte in West. Birgit in the North. Brigida in the South.

“Surely no one would kill a young girl for such an indiscretion,” Delphine said, hoping to gain more detail on the girl’s disappearance.

“Folks get a little land, a little money, and lose their sense. But no, I don’t think it likely those boys killed their own sister. Still, no one ever heard from her again.”

Delphine nodded and thought of the intricate and often lethal political conflicts back in her native High Rock. “What of the rest of the clan?”

“Oh, the older sister became a priestess of Arkay. The rest of the family is still poor but landed. I think one of the boys ran off and joined the war. The mother still lives at the old manor house. She’s a widow--haughty little thing, and I do mean little. She’s part Imperial and she’ll make sure you know it. Claims to be a descendent of the Hero of Kvatch.”

She’s a Terenti. The Dragonborn is a Terenti.

“And the Jarl’s heir?” Delphine pressed on. “He is the Jarl now, isn’t he? Jarl Siddgeir.”

“If you want dirt on Siddgeir, you’re going to have to pay extra, my lady.” Magda smoothed her wiry, white hair with her rough hands.

Delphine laughed wryly. “I can afford it.”

“Yes, the boy from my story earlier grew up to be Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath. He suffered few consequences, though it did take him a few extra years to find a suitable wife, I suppose. Not that it matters now. He spends more time with his Altmer mistress these days, anyway,” Magda said. She was certainly trying to earn that extra coin.

“So the girl either gets sent away or runs off in shame, and the boy gets to become the leader of the entire Hold?” Delphine sighed.

Magda chuckled, though her eyes were cold. “Ain’t that the truth, my lady?”

“Aye,” Delphine grunted in assent.


	16. A Time to Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Thanks to all the reviewers :D
> 
> Sorry this one took awhile. It's "busy season" at my job D:

Vilkas tapped his fingers against his brother’s door as he turned the knob with his other hand. “Come in,” he heard Farkas mumble as he walked into the room. The smaller of the two twins crossed the room in long strides, smiling weakly at his brother.

“You still have that good mead?” He shifted his weight between his feet anxiously.

“The Honningbrew Gold? Check the cupboard,” Farkas said. The larger twin sat cross legged on top of his bed, a four-string lute across his lap that he appeared to be in the middle of restringing.

Vilkas crouched down, retrieving a bottle of quality mead and a pair of tankards. He uncorked the bottle, pouring a glass for himself and his brother.

“You alright, brother?” Farkas asked, clearing his throat.

Vilkas handed him a tankard of mead and took a long drink before responding. “This Silver Hand shit,” he grunted.

Farkas nodded and frowned. “We picked a hell of night to come home,” he said dryly. Kodlak had filled them in on the details of the attack once Brigida had left the room. Skjor and Aela had gone for a hunt during the full moon and ended up separated. Five Silver Hand, including their former shield-sister Krev, ambushed the lone warrior. Skjor, still in beast form, was exceptionally vulnerable to their silver weapons. Vilkas had seen silver burns before, the red and blistered skin that surrounds a cut made by a silver blade on the flesh of a lycan, but never wounds as large and extensive as Skjor’s.

“Krev and Skjor. It won’t end until one of them is dead,” Vilkas said.

“She blamed him for turning Arnbjorn,” Farkas replied, sticking his tongue out slightly as he adjusted the tuning pin on one of the lute’s strings.

“Arnbjorn was a bloodthirsty sadist before Hircine ever heard of him.”

Farkas grumbled something in agreement, furrowing his brow as he tightened the final string. His fingers pressed down on the frets as he began to tune the instrument. Vilkas choked down a large gulp of mead, and the two brothers sat for several minutes, not speaking, only the plucking of the lute to fill the silence.

Farkas sighed heavily and looked up at his brother, absently strumming a simple major chord. “Think you owe me an apology,” he said.

Vilkas clicked his teeth against his tongue. “What’d I do this time?”

“Acted like a prick when I asked about you and the whelp,” Farkas said calmly, meeting his brother’s gaze. Vilkas felt the heat rise in his cheeks. “Come on, Vilkas. I know you’re sleeping with her.”

“How did you--?” Vilkas stammered, which returned some of the mirth to his brother’s eyes. “Look, when you phrase it like that, you imply this is some sort of habitual, ongoing thing.”

“It isn’t?” Farkas arched his brow.

Vilkas drank more mead. “I--No, it was just a thing that happened in Ivarstead. Once. Let’s leave it at that.”

Farkas shrugged his wide shoulders. “If you say so. Seems to me like you and her get along. Well, better than you do with most people.”

Vilkas scoffed. Farkas sipped from his tankard.

“Skjor told me to leave her alone,” Vilkas mumbled.

“Wait. What? When?”

“Before we went to Ivarstead, he told me not to get involved with her.”

Farkas rolled his eyes.

Vilkas frowned. “I don’t want to hurt her. What if he was right?”

“Don’t worry about Skjor. He’s being a hypocrite,” Farkas replied, shaking his head. “But Vilkas? If really you don’t want anyone to get hurt, you gotta figure out what you want.”

 

“Did the Greybeards provide you with the information you were searching for?”

Brigida stared into the mug of tea Kodlak had poured for her, her face close enough that she could feel the steam rising up to her face. She and the Harbinger sat at the small table in his office. After a long, somber meal with the other whelps the night before, Brigida had slept for at least ten hours and still had woken up tired, her eyelids heavy and exhausted.

“They seem confident I’m the Dragonborn. Or a Dragonborn, at least,” she sighed. “And I guess we can confirm that Alduin is back.” She sipped the tea and the heat of it was harsh on her tongue. “Beyond that, I left with more confused than when I came. That prophecy Vilkas found in that book, they couldn’t tell me if it was real or not.”

Kodlak frowned. “Yes, Vilkas mentioned to me you seemed disappointed by the lack of clear answers.”

Vilkas and the Harbinger had been talking about her? Brigida shifted awkwardly in her chair. In Ivarstead, they’d almost felt like equals. But back at Jorrvaskr, she was still a whelp and he was a Circle member, the Master-at-Arms, and the Harbinger’s trusted protegee. “That’s accurate,” she said slowly.

“Yes, well. Confirmation that Alduin has returned and that you are Dragonborn makes the journey worthwhile. And I understand that the Greybeards taught you more shouts, as well,” he smiled.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “That part was good. They want me to do some trial at an old tomb up near Morthal next.”

“The twins told me about that as well,” Kodlak said. “Ustengrav. You may not know your ultimate destiny, but you have your next step. I think your focus for now should be to train and prepare for your trial.” The Harbinger paused, his brow wrinkled in thought. “Skjor obviously won’t be able to train you, and Aela is a bit preoccupied at the moment. I spoke to Farkas and Vilkas last night about training you instead.”

“Can’t I train with Farkas?” she asked. Her relationship with Vilkas was complicated enough without him being her instructor as well.

Kodlak chuckled. “I know Vilkas can be a bit abrasive, but I assure you, he is an excellent instructor.”

“Yeah okay,” she conceded, not wanting to draw any further attention to the matter. “I’ll train with them both, then.”

 

Ludo was in the infirmary when it happened. Thyra, the priestess of Talos and head healer of the fort, had been using restoration spells on him six times a day for the past week. The pain in his skull and neck had receded, as had the dizziness, the nausea, the blurred vision. But Ludo’s reaction times remained sluggish--unacceptable for an archer and scout of his rank. He was desperate to return to his post, and healing was the only way for him to get there.

The familiar warm tingle of her restoration spell travelled down his spine and up into the back of his head. Ludo closed his dark brown eyes, trying to inhale slowly and evenly. Dust and old water. Blue mountain flower. The room was dim and quiet.

And then it wasn’t. The latch clicked. He opened his eyes. The door opened, sunlight from the courtyard streaming in. A Stormcloak soldier, one of the infantrymen, stood at the threshold. The smell of fire and blood filled the air. He could hear the clanging of metal, the screams of warriors.

“The Imperials,” the soldier panted, his eyes bulging. “They’ve laid siege to the fort.”

He jumped up from the cot where he’d been sitting, pushing Thyra’s hands away. “I have to,” he told her before she could object. “Go hide somewhere. They’ll not spare you because you’re a healer.” Ludo sprinted down the drafty stone hall to the officer’s barracks where his leathers and his long bow were next to his bed.

He ran as fast as he could, but by the time he reached the battle, the Imperials had already damaged the fort with their catapults. The thatched roofs of some auxiliary buildings had been set on fire. Legion footsoldiers flooded the courtyard, outnumbering the Stormcloaks by nearly two-to-one. Ludo tried to ignore the carnage around him, the stench of death, as he crept along the edge of the fracas toward the watchtower.

From atop the fort, Ludo could pick off Imperials individually with a quick, clean, steel-tipped arrow to the head. The Legionnaires were engaged in melee with the Stormcloak infantrymen, who, despite the odds, were a tenacious group of berserkers and did not go down easily. Still, it became quickly obvious to Ludo that they were not going to win this battle. He continued to fire at the Imperials anyway, until a group of them finally figured out where he was shooting from and began to ascend the steps of the watchtower. Ludo strapped his bow to his back and climbed down the iron rungs of a ladder on the side of the tower. He landed on top of the main structure of Fort Dunstad and raced across the roof to a small platform he knew to be a trap door.

He jumped down into the atrium of the fort, where he could hear the clicking of steel boots against stone. The Imperials were already inside. Ludo sneaked down corridor that led back to the infirmary, which he knew to be near one of Dunstad’s many back exits.

He ducked his head into the healer’s room, where Thyra was crouching behind a barrel. Her halo of red hair was impossible to conceal. Ludo ran into the room and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her to her feet. “We need to get out of here right now, priestess.”

Thyra clutched the amulet of Talos on her chest. “We can’t desert the fortress during a battle!”

“The battle’s lost,” he said grimly. “The Pale is lost. You can stay here and await your execution or you can escape to Eastmarch with me.”

 

Skjor was grateful his mate was a huntress and a warrior. Aela had seen far gorier things than the now healing wounds across his chest and shoulder. Still, he appreciated that she didn’t flinch or grimace as he removed the bandages that were wrapped around his torso. He looked down at her eyes, grey-green laced with silver, calm but melancholy.

He brushed a strand of dark auburn hair from her face. “Hey, don’t be sad. Priestess said I’d be better in a few weeks.”

Aela sighed heavily as she handed him a fresh set of bandages treated with healing potion around his body. “You idiot,” she looked up at him; her face was flushed. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Skjor said. “Not anytime soon.” He smirked, gesturing to the large gash that ran diagonal across his body and the swollen, blistered, silvern burnt skin around it.

“I told you not to go off on your own. Kodlak told you. Fucking Vilkas told you. But you did it anyway. You knew the Silver Hand were out there,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry--” he shrugged.

“No,” she interrupted. “Don’t apologize to me. I’m not blaming you for being attacked, Skjor. But I also know you can’t back down once you’ve been challenged, and that’s exactly what Krev wants. You could get killed,” she frowned, “and there’s still so much we have yet to do.”

He smiled tenderly at her. Aela would never admit it, but Skjor knew she wanted a daughter to carry on her mother’s lineage. He pulled himself forward to kiss her cheek. “I’m here right now, Aela. And as soon as I can sit up straight without wincing, we’ll do whatever it is you want.”

 

With Skjor and Aela out of commission, it fell upon Farkas and Vilkas to carry out the duties of the Circle that week. They opted to train the whelps as a group. Farkas paired them up and had them spar, giving feedback throughout the session. He set up Brigida with Njada. “Your fighting styles are opposites,” the large Nord explained, “so you can learn a lot from each other.”

Vilkas ran them through a series of Yokudan fighting forms that he had recently found in an old book, focusing on correcting small imbalances in their stances and weak points in their footwork.

“You have got to work on your defenses if you’re really going to attempt Ustengrav on your own,” Vilkas told Brigida in a low voice, pulling her aside after their second day of training.

“The Greybeards were pretty clear that I have to do it alone,” she replied, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms across her chest.

“Fine,” he shrugged. “But you need to learn how to protect yourself without me and Farkas around.”

“That’s funny,” she said, though she was not laughing. “Because I seem to recall surviving for the first twenty-six years of my life without either of you at my back.”

A tiny smile pulled at the side of his mouth.

“What?” she asked impatiently.

“Now I know how old you are,” he laughed.

She snorted a little and shook her head at him.

“Seriously, though,” he said, straightening his posture. “You don’t use a shield. Which is fine. I don’t either. But that means you either need to learn to block with your sword or you need to learn how to dodge.”

“Alright. Kodlak said you were an excellent instructor. What do you suggest I do?” She pursed her lips expectantly.

“For blocking, keep sparring with Njada. Just let her bash the shit out of you until you figure out how to beat her at her own game. Farkas was right about you two being a good match. Maybe you could teach her a thing or two about agility. As for dodging, I’ve got some books on Dunmeri sword forms that use a lots of feints and dives and rolls. You might get something out of it. You could try asking Athis for tips, too.”

The cynicism disappeared from her face. “Oh, that’s actually pretty solid advice. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been doing this for a while, you know,” he smirked. “By the way, you need to pick up a job this week.”

“I know,” she sighed. “All the good ones are already taken.”

“Come to Rorikstead with me,” he said quietly, his pale eyes scanning the yard to make sure no one was listening to their conversation. “With Skjor out, I’ve gotta take care of all the bounties, but the Harbinger doesn’t want anyone in the Circle leaving Whiterun alone.”

“Just the two of us?” she asked slowly, uncertainty in her voice.

“Yeah, it would be.” Vilkas fidgeted. “If you don’t want to go that’s okay.”

She opened her mouth to respond, when an eruption of shouting echoed across the yard. Somewhere on the other side of Jorrvaskr, there was a fight. Vilkas and Brigida sprinted around the building to find half of Whiterun crowded into the plaza. In the middle of the thick, Avulstein Grey-Mane and Idolaf Battle-Born were dueling near the Gildegreen. “Get everyone to back out of the way,” he told her, before running down the stairs of Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas dove into the crowd, shoving his way towards the two men who were flinging insults at one another as their blades clashed. He unsheathed his sword, bringing it down between them. “Enough!” Vilkas roared, and Avulstein and Idolaf both froze. They both kept their blades drawn but turned their heads to face the Companion.

“Avulstein. Idolaf. I grew up here in Whiterun with both of you, and I know you both to be law-abiding men of honor,” Vilkas said firmly. “So what, pray tell, is the meaning of this?”

Idolaf Battle-Born scoffed. “Law-abiding? Stormcloaks like Clan Grey-Mane are guilty of treason against the empire.”

Avulstein growled and began to draw back his sword. Vilkas stepped even closer to the dueling men. He was now practically in between them. “Stop this! What happened?”

“The Imperials invaded The Pale. The sacked Dawnstar and Fort Dunstad, and they’re moving into the foothills,” Avulstein answered darkly. “Closer to Whiterun.”

“They didn’t invade The Pale,” Idolaf sneered. “They evicted the rebel Stormcloaks who were illegally occupying the hold and returned it rightfully to Imperial control.”

“Shut up,” Vilkas barked. “Enough punditry from both of you. I’ll remind you two that Whiterun and our Jarl are currently neutral in the war. All of us are united in wanting Whiterun to be a safe and stable community in spite of everything,” Vilkas felt his throat hitch. Everything was happening all at once. Silver Hand. Civil War. Alduin.

The three men stood silently for a moment, regarding one another. They had all been boys together once, running through the streets of Whiterun, playing tag in the town square. Now they stood on that same ground, weapons drawn on each other.

Avulstein squared his jaw. Idolaf flared his nostrils. They were both glaring at each other, though neither man was moving.

“Go home, both of you,” Vilkas said quietly, holding his sword firmly in place between their bodies.

And in unison, the two dueling Nords each sheathed their swords, and the crowd grew quiet and parted as Idolaf and Avulstein walked towards their respective clan’s homes.

Vilkas looked around. Brigida was standing in front of the crowd, her arms outstretched in front of a group of onlookers. She was beaming at him, her hazel eyes glittering gold in the sun. An cool autumn breeze stirred the branches of the Gildegreen, chilling the sweat on his forehead. Her ash-brown hair blew across her face. He waved back at her and gave a nod up toward the mead hall.

She followed him through the crowd, appearing at his side as he began to ascend the steps of Jorrvaskr. As they reached the front doors, he felt her hand on his elbow. “Hey Vilkas,” she said softly. “When are you leaving for Rorikstead?”

“Fredas,” he answered. “Why?”

She smiled brightly at him, and his heart raced. “I’m coming with you.”


	17. Rorikstead

Njada was having an animated conversation with Thorald Grey-Mane, but Brigida couldn’t make out a single word. The roaring of the Skyforge masked their voices. The smith’s son was sharpening a steel sword on the wheel. The platinum-haired Companion was pacing around like a senche tiger on the hunt.

Brigida cleared her throat conspicuously as she walked through the the smog of the forge.

“What do you want?” Njada sneered.

“I need to speak to Thorald, though you are welcome to stay for this,” she said cautiously.

Thorald stopped the grinding wheel and turned to face her. “What is you need, Thane Brigida?”

She acknowledged his politeness with a small bow befitting a man of his station. The Grey-Manes were not wealthy, but they were an old and influential clan. And while Avulstein may have been the clan’s scion, Thorald was his father’s apprentice, poised to take over the Skyforge someday himself.

“My brother, Ludo Summer-Blade, was stationed at Fort Dunstad in The Pale,” she said. “I just want to know if he survived.”

Njada’s haughty expression suddenly softened. “I have three brothers,” the blonde woman said. “All Stormcloaks.”

“Then you’ll understand my desire to know that he’s safe.”

“I’ll be honest,” Thorald sighed. “From what I’ve heard, there weren’t many survivors. Fort Dunstad was a massacre. But if anyone in the hold knows, it’d be the commander at the Whiterun Stormcloak Camp, Hjornskar Head-Smasher.”

“Thank you, Thorald. I’ll check with him after I return from Rorikstead.”

“That’s right,” Njada said slyly. “You’re going on a job with Vilkas.” She and Thorald exchanged a meaningful look.

“Exactly,” Brigida replied stiffly. “It’s a job.”

 

“Ludo Summer-Blade and Thyra Red-Shoal,” Ralof announced as he walked into the Windhelm barracks. They had been given a pair of beds and a few days off following their escape from Fort Dunstad. Thyra had resumed wearing her amulet of Talos outside her soft wool robes. Ludo was wearing his sky-blue Stormcloak mantle for the first time since they left the Pale. Ralof gave a small bow to his fellow officers.

The scout and the priestess both returned the gesture. “I know the accommodations are a bit beneath you,” Ralof said apologetically.

“We’re just happy to be in from the cold,” Thyra said.

Ralof gave her a tiny smile. “Well, you’ll be given some time to recover here at the barracks, of course, but Jarl Ulfric may have found an assignment here in Eastmarch for the two of you. He wants to send you both to Kynesgrove. There have been rumors of a dragon in the region, and Jarl Ulfric believes adding two highly trained officers--a healer and a ranger at that, would help ensure the safety of the community.”

Ludo looked at Thyra who kept her gaze fixed upon Ralof. Her expression was impassive.

“Oy. You saw the dragon at Helgen, Ralof, didn't you?” Ludo asked.

“I did,” Ralof nodded solemnly. “I was the one who escaped with your sister.”

“Yeah, I remember that from the missive. Do you know where she is now?”

“Last I heard, she was in Whiterun.”

“Perhaps I’ll try to write to her,” Ludo murmured.

“If you do, send my regards,” Ralof said, with a small bow before leaving the barracks.

 

It was the middle of Hearthfire, the height of Skyrim’s brief autumn, and though the days were still mild, nights on the steppe were becoming increasingly frigid. Brigida could see her breath as she dug through her travel pack a only few feet away from the campfire. She pulled out a bottle of cheap Alto Wine and carried it back to the spot where she and Vilkas were sitting.

They hadn’t talked much on the ride over, Vilkas insisting that they focus on making good time. Rorikstead was further away than Brigida had realized, all the way on the other side of Whiterun Hold. They’d ridden hard all day and were still little more than halfway there.

“So, who’s Krev?” Brigida asked the question she’d be wondering about for days. She squeezed the wine between her knees and began to twist the cork out of it.

“I’m not allowed to talk about that with you,” Vilkas replied, rubbing his hands together in front of the fire. A mischievous, sideways grin crept across his face. “But maybe if you were to tell me something…”

The cork gave a satisfying pop as she pulled it from the bottle. “Such as?”

He grabbed the bottle from her hand and poured some wine into his cup. “You still haven’t told me why you left Skyrim.”

She snatched the wine back, drinking straight from the bottle. Brigida exhaled heavily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Fine. You first. Who’s Krev?”

“She was a Companion, years ago. Half-Orc, half-Nord. An absolute terror with a battleaxe. She took up with Arnbjorn, another Companion. And when he joined the Circle after Aela’s ma passed away, Skjor turned him into a lycan. Arnbjorn was,” Vilkas shuddered a little at the man’s name, “a particularly sadistic and cruel man. The beast blood did _not_ help matters. Krev found out and was disgusted by the whole thing. She left Jorrvaskr and the Companions within a year.”

“What happened to Arnbjorn?” she asked.

Vilkas shook his head “A second question? And I haven’t even gotten to ask my first,” he mock-scolded her.

“Okay. What was your question again?” she asked, hoping he’d ask about something different, something less mortifying.

“You left Skyrim ages ago. Why?”

“I had sex with my sister’s fiance,” she said as plainly as she could. Vilkas widened his eyes; clearly he had not been expecting that answer. She paused for a moment and he held out his hand as if to tell her the answer was insufficient. “My sister was betrothed to the Jarl of Falkreath’s nephew, Siddgeir. We were,” she began to laugh, “affair sounds so adult, doesn’t it? We were just dumb kids sneaking around. We were really only sleeping together at the end. But people, my sister, they were starting to suspect something. Then there was this party, just weeks before the wedding, at the Jarl’s Longhouse. My brother caught us together, and he yelled at me and then he beat the shit out of Siddgeir. And I ran away. I grabbed my horse and rode back to the manor house. I packed my things and I was in Helgen before dawn. I sold the horse there, which was more than enough coin to get me on the first carriage to Cyrodiil.”

He gave her a tender, slightly sad look which was exactly what she didn’t want from him. “How old were you?” he asked.

“Sixteen,” she shrugged, refusing to look at him. “And that’s your second question. So, tell me. What happened to Arnbjorn?”

Vilkas scoffed a little. “That’s not my--okay, fine. Arnbjorn joined the Dark Brotherhood. He’s an assassin now.”

“Well, shit,” Brigida took another swig of wine from the bottle.

“By the way,” he grabbed the wine from her, “I’ve met Siddgeir before, and he’s a dickhead.”

“I fully agree,” she said coolly. “I have notoriously awful taste in men.”

“That’s good news for me, then,” he smirked, leaning in to kiss her.

 

She woke up in his tent, both of them packed snugly in his bedroll. It was dark; the fur hangings had been tied shut the night before. Brigida wiggled her arm out of the bedroll and lifted a small corner of the bottom of the tent. A faint beam of early morning light stretched across the ground. Vilkas blinked a few times.

She felt him wrap his arm around her waist. “Stay in bed,” he whispered.

“We should get up soon,” she warned.

Vilkas grumbled, burying his face in her hair.

When she finally got up, nearly an hour later, Brigida was relieved to find their supplies and horses were still there. It was early; frost glittered on the prairie grass around them. She shivered as she took down the tent she hadn’t slept in, rolled up the bedroll she hadn’t used.

They arrived in Rorikstead that afternoon, he checked them into a single room at the local inn, and he told her to take a hot bath and have some supper. He left in his armor, his sword at his back, to take care of the bounty he’d come for. Brigida had tried to protest at first, though privately she had no desire to accompany him. “You said the Harbinger didn’t want you traveling alone,” she frowned. “What about the Silver Hand?”

Vilkas laughed smugly. “You want to solo Ustengrav, but I can’t do a simple job on my own? You know I’ve been bounty hunting since you were girlchild on your mama’s farm, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, go. But if you die out there, I’ll kill you, Vilkas.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Bri. I’ll see you in a couple hours,” he winked. “Hopefully.”

Later that night, she was washed and well-fed, reading a book next to the fireplace, when he returned to the inn, his chest plate splattered in another man’s blood, his affect considerably more subdued. He silently pressed his lips to her forehead before disappearing to their room.

When he didn’t come back, she followed after him. He stood over a wash basin, wearing nothing but his breeches, the water now tinted carmine with blood.

Vilkas smiled weakly at her. “He struggled,” he said darkly. “It wasn’t as clean as I like it to be.”

“You okay?” she asked, resting her hand on his bicep.

He averted his silver eyes as she stepped in front of him. “Like I said, this wasn’t my first time,” he replied.

She left him to finish washing up and returned to main hall of the inn, where she ordered him some food and a bottle of ale. When she returned, he had changed clothes and was already in considerably better spirits.

“Skjor’s been grooming me to take over the bounties for a while now,” he said, sopping up a bit of broth with a chunk of bread. Vilkas sat at the small wooden table in the corner, while Brigida was on the bed, a blanket draped over her shoulders. “Most of the others can’t really handle it. Farkas prefers jobs where he gets to swoop in and play the hero, rescue missions and honor brawls. And Aela would rather hunt sabre cats and horkers than escaped prisoners and wanted criminals.”

“You shouldn’t have to shoulder that burden on your own,” she said.

Vilkas shook his head. “Never easy to take a life, but I certainly handle it better than most, don’t I? It’s not necessarily something I’m proud of, but being a Companion at least allows me to utilize my skills in an honorable way.”

Brigida reckoned this was a bad time to debate the honor of killing escaped convicts.

“Besides, I can see some of you whelps taking on more of these jobs soon. Athis. Njada, maybe. You.”

“Me?”

“I hope you don’t take that the wrong way. But I think you could be a good bounty hunter.”

It was hard not to laugh at the absurdity of what he was saying. Before 17 Last Seed, Brigida had spent the last four years of her life running or hiding from guards, agents, and bounty hunters alike. She probably had more in common with the man Vilkas had killed earlier that day than any of her new friends in Whiterun.

“Next time, take me with you,” she said. “I want to learn.”

Vilkas stood up and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around Brigida and kissing her deeply as he fell into bed.

 

He could have stayed in Rorikstead for weeks with her, sleeping in and ignoring all the troubles they’d left back in Whiterun. Instead Vilkas and Brigida left early the next morning. They sky was grey, and a light, misty rain fell across the prairie throughout day. Not enough to impede their journey, but enough that their clothes were soaked by nightfall. They took off their wet garments and spent the evening in his tent. One final night together before they returned to Whiterun.

In Whiterun they’d have to face their problems, and they wouldn’t even be able to seek comfort in each other’s arms as they had on the road. Vilkas supposed he could keep finding excuses to go out of town with her, at least until people started to get suspicious. In the meantime, there was work to be done, to protect his family, his hold, his nation. He clasped her hand a final time as they approached the city on Morndas evening. And when he slept in his bed alone that night, he was struck by how cold it felt.


	18. A Well-Appointed Chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience everyone! A perfect storm of work bs and writer's block hit me, and I had a really hard time getting anything done on this fic for a couple weeks. But I busted out this and about half of the next chapter over the weekend, and I'm excited to get back to it.
> 
> This chapter's just a bit of indulgent Jorrvaskr slice of life goodness, but in the next one we're finally going to Ustengrav, I swear. Plot, y'all.

“Someone’s awake early,” Brigida called across the great hall of Jorrvaskr.

Skjor, his chest and shoulder still bandaged, sat in the dim light of the hearth's embers, the dawn sun trickling through the roof and the windows. A few old tankards of staling mead yet sat on the table; it was so early not even Tilma was up.

“Couldn’t manage to stay asleep,” he shook his head. “I spend all day sitting around, and they wonder why I can’t get tired.”

She smiled sympathetically at him. “I’m going to ride out to the Stormcloak camp this morning, otherwise I’d still be in bed.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Tell me you’re not joining the war.”

“Of course not,” she snorted. “I’m trying to see if they know where my brother is. He’s the one who joined up.”

Skjor took a plaintive sip from his clay mug of dark coffee. The drink was uncommon enough in northern Tamriel, but especially in Skyrim where herbal teas and mulled wines were far more popular as hot beverages. Brigida wondered if he’d developed a taste for it while serving in the Great War. “So, how was Rorikstead, whelp?”

“I hadn’t been there before, actually. Quaint, isn’t it?”

“It’s the town that every child’s fairy tale is set in, I’m sure of it,” Skjor said. “But I meant the job. Vilkas said he took you on a bounty hunt with him.”

“I mostly just observed,” she lied. “He just wanted me to become familiar with the process.”

“Heard the kill didn’t go well for him.”

“The convict put up a struggle,” she averted her gaze, hoping to change the subject soon. “It got a little messy.”

“You know how much he collected for it?”

“I don’t,” she finally said something true. “I went back to the inn early. Whole thing made me a bit uneasy. You know,” she lowered her voice to a near whisper, “I’ve been on the wrong side of a bounty myself, so it was all a bit weird for me.”

“Vilkas still doesn’t know about--?”

“No, and let’s keep it that way,” she said with terse finality. “Come to think of it, I might still be wanted in Wayrest.”

Skjor, to her relief, laughed heartily at the admission. “You know you’re a thane now, right? Hire an advocate and get it cleared already.”

“No need,” she waved her hand. “I have no intention of ever setting foot in High Rock ever again. Besides, the law is the least of my worries there.”

 

Hjornskar Head-Smasher looked exactly like his name sounded; nearly as tall as Farkas, with thick limbs and mane of golden-brown hair tied behind his head. He was clad in spiked leather and bear fur. “Thane Summer-Blade,” he intoned, as he bowed slightly too deeply. His voice was gruff with just a tinge of a country accent. Hjornskar was a commoner--maybe a yeoman’s son, but more likely a peasant. “I didn’t expect to see a vassal of Jarl Balgruuf in a Stormcloak camp.”

The two Nords stood in the commander’s tent, a fire blazing outside. The Stormcloaks had sent up camp in the foothills, hidden among the birch trees and conifers. Had Thorald not given her a map to their site, she would never have found it. “In accord with my liege, I remain neutral on the civil war,” she said carefully. “I’m here because of my brother. He’s a Stormcloak, and he was stationed at Fort Dunstad.”

Hjornskar frowned. “There were very few survivors from that battle. Still, I did receive a missive this week detailing the casualties from the conquest of The Pale.” The Stormcloak leaned over his desk, producing a few sheets of parchment. He skimmed them briefly, before tapping his index finger on the page. “Aha!” the Stormcloak exclaimed. “There were two officers who managed to escape to Windhelm last week. A priestess called Thyra Red-Shoal and an archer--”

“Ludo?” she interrupted.

“Ludo Summer-Blade, yes.”

She heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods. All nine of ‘em,” she added wryly.

The Stormcloak smiled a little. “We could use someone with your abilities, you know,” he said. “You’re a true Nord, I can tell. Fight for your nation. And your faith.”

Brigida shook her head vigorously. “Look, I don’t know what rumors you’ve heard about me, but I’m just Thane of Whiterun and I’m neutral on this conflict.”

“You can’t stay neutral forever,” Hjornskar warned. “Neither can our Jarl.”

 

When Vilkas stumbled out of bed that afternoon, he was immediately greeted by Aela forcefully pulling him into her room. His shield-sister’s chamber was decorated with the trophies of her hunts, rich pelts on every surface, broad racks of antlers mounted on the wall. She let go of his arm and shut the door behind them as Vilkas rubbed his bicep theatrically.

“Oh, get over it,” she rolled her eyes at him.

He would have snapped at anyone else, but Aela was his older sister in all but blood and had the rare ability to put Vilkas in his place. He had known Aela for as long as he could remember. When he and Farkas were young pups, she was the lanky teenager whose woodsman Pa brought her up to Jorrvaskr every weekend. Aela’s Ma had been a member of the Circle, an archer, and a fierce huntress herself.

“What do you want?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“I’m worried,” she said, “about Skjor.”

The silence that fell between them was uncharacteristically awkward.

“I thought he was recovering.”

“He is,” Aela rubbed her temples. “He’ll be fine in a few weeks. I’m afraid of what he’s going to do after that.”

Vilkas nodded, suddenly understanding. “You think he’ll go after Krev again.”

“I know he will,” Aela stared at her feet for a moment.

She then abruptly looked up at Vilkas.

“What if I told you I knew where to find a camp of Silver Hand near Whiterun?” Her silver eyes were burning.

“I’d say we go and tear up every last one of them,” Vilkas replied in a soft, even tone.

“I knew I was right to ask you instead of your brother,” Aela beamed at him. “Can you be ready to leave in an hour?”

Vilkas raised his eyebrows and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah," he breathed, "okay, sister. I can do that.”

 

Brigida returned to Jorrvaskr to find Farkas running a sparring session in the yard. Skjor, Kodlak and Vignar Grey-Mane sat on the terrace watching the whelps fight, hollering at them all the while. Vilkas and Aela were conspicuously absent. After the initial round of matches drew to a close, she managed to catch Njada’s eye. The blonde smirked menacingly as Brigida crossed the yard to meet her now customary training partner. Njada wasn’t her favorite person, but none of the other whelps challenged her in combat so effectively. She always left the ring bloody and bruised but stronger and smarter than before.

Afterwards, she would go to the temple of Kynareth, where the priestess had been teaching her to heal her own wounds with magick, an endeavor she’d kept secret from her shield-siblings. Brigida would never admit it, especially not to Vilkas, but she was privately terrified of going through Ustengrav alone. Having a bit of healing magick gave her some peace of mind. She jogged up the steps of the mead hall that evening, her cuts smooth, her bruises faded.

A blast of heat, light and noise greeted her as she pulled open the heavy front door. Skjor sat in the middle of the table--Aela to his right, tucked beneath his big, bandaged arm. Both twins were to his left, sloshing their mead around as they sang a rather lewd drinking song with Torvar. Athis and Njada were arm wrestling while Ria cheered them on. Vignar and Kodlak seemed to have placed bets on the match. Brigida managed to find a spot somewhere between Aela and the arm wrestling.

“Are we celebrating something?” Brigida asked.

“Nothing in particular, whelp,” the Huntress sighed. “But, we’re here at Jorrvaskr and we live to fight another day. Why not make merry?”

She looked down the table, where Vilkas was losing some type of ale chugging contest to his brother and Torvar. She watched him sputter and gasp for air as he slammed his tankard on the table. When raised his head up and saw her, he smiled and winked. It was a relieving contrast to their mutual avoidance of one another since returning from Rorikstead, though she hoped no one else saw it as she felt her cheeks grow pink.

Later that night, as she approached the stairs to living quarters, she felt him tug at the back of her tunic. She jumped as he leaned in close to her. “Spend the night with me,” he whispered a bit too loud for her liking.

“Are you out of you mind?” she hissed, trying to keep her eyes from laughing.

Vilkas walked down to the end of the stairs, a knowing smile on his sensuous lips as he leaned against the door. His pale grey eyes were glowing against the dark warpaint still smeared across his face. What had he and Aela been up to?

“I need to go to bed,” she teased haughtily, placing her hands on her hips.

“You can sleep in my room, you know,” he smirked.

“Yes, I’m sure sleeping is what you had in mind,” she rolled her eyes at him.

Vilkas opened the door behind him and bowed slightly as she walked across the threshold, his dark hair falling across his face. Brigida allowed herself to giggle as she strolled down the candlelit hall towards his room, feeling his eyes on her back and the way it caused her hips to sway. The sound of his feet rushing after her echoed down the hallway as she opened the door to his chamber, a well-appointed and surprisingly tidy room. She walked into his room and turned to see leaning against the doorway, his face flushed. He grinned at her before settling in the chair next to his desk where he began to unlace his boots.

“Where were you today?” she asked, leaning against the side of his bed.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“You have a point,” she sighed. “I was the Whiterun Stormcloak Camp, trying to get information about my brother.”

The rakish smirk he’d been wearing disappeared, and Vilkas became somber. “Is everything alright?”

She nodded slowly. “He survived the battle at his fort. I think he’s in Eastmarch now.”

“That’s good to hear.” Vilkas leaned forward against his knees. “I went on a job with Aela. Think she needed to get out of this place for a few hours.”

“What kinda job?” He adjusted his posture, looked down at his hands and smiled. “Just a little pest control.”

She opened her mouth to ask what he meant by that, but before she could say anything Vilkas stood up abruptly and pulled off his shirt.

“I thought you wanted to keep this is a secret,” she said as he approached her. She ran his fingers over his warm, bare skin.

“It’s late and everyone’s drunk. No one’s going to know,” he breathed, looping his arm around her waist, his other hand fiddling with the ties on her breeches.

 

Farkas knocked loudly as he turned the knob on his twin’s door the next morning. He heard a bit of shuffling from the bed as his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness of his brother’s quarters. The thick scent in the air made him laugh.

“Farkas, get out,” he heard his brother groan. The furs on the bed next to Vilkas were conspicuously lumpy.

“Okay, but Kodlak wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” Vilkas asked.

“Yeah, you,” he answered. “There someone else in here?”

The lump under blankets appeared to kick Vilkas gently. Farkas shook his head and closed the door behind him. “Don’t have to suffocate under those furs, whelp. It’s just me.”

Her messy ash brown hair emerged from the pile of blankets first, followed by Brigida’s disgruntled face. “Morning, Farkas,” she said dryly. “Since you’re here, could you hand me my clothes?”

He gathered the tunic and breeches that lay in a pile next to the bed that didn’t appear to belong to his brother. “Just one question,” he said as he handed her the clothing. “You two know you’re doing a real bad job of hiding whatever this is, right? Lucky it was me that found you.”

“You shouldn’t have let me fall asleep in here,” the whelp grumbled under her breath.

Vilkas growled. “Seriously, Farkas, get out.”

“Oh, I will,” he laughed. “Just, don’t forget to meet with the Harbinger, okay?”

 

“Well, I know what I’m doing today,” Brigida said once Farkas closed the door.

“What’s that?” Vilkas asked, getting out bed and gathering his clothes.

“Buying some furniture for that damn shack the Jarl gave me,” she said, wriggling into her breeches while still in his bed. “So this never happens again.”

Vilkas arched an eyebrow at her. “I hope you mean the part where Farkas barges in on us.”

“I do,” she said. “There’s no reason for us to skulk around Jorrvaskr like a couple of teenagers when I own a house on the other side of town.”

“Good,” he leaned forward, bringing his face level to hers. “Because I hope this does happen again.” She looked into his icy silver eyes, her heart racing. He cupped her face in his hands, his rough fingers brushing across her skin, and kissed her.

“I do too,” she said, pushing him away gently. “But not now, not here.” She stood up and ducked around him, watching him while she slipped on her shoes, preparing to leave. Vilkas pouted and ran his hand through his dark hair, pushing it out of his eyes and giving a pointedly dismayed look.

Brigida shook her head and laughed a little. “You really shouldn’t have let me fall asleep in here, Vilkas.” When he opened his mouth to reply, she held up her hand to stop him. “Furniture,” she said with curt nod.

 

“I wanted to thank you for spending some time with Aela yesterday,” Kodlak said, pouring Vilkas a mug of tea. “She’s been out of sorts lately--for obvious reasons--and I think getting out of Jorrvaskr did her some good.”

“It’s no problem,” he replied, knowing not to touch the tea just yet, knowing that Kodlak always brewed his a little too hot.

The Harbinger’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What kind of job was it, my boy?”

Vilkas tried not to squirm. “Pest control,” he murmured, studying his fingernails. “Some wolves were harassing the shepherds north of town. Simple stuff, really.”

“Yes, well,” Kodlak mused, “perhaps that’s what your shield-sister needs right now.” The Harbinger leaned back in his chair appraisingly. “I assume you’re going to Ustengrav with Brigida.”

“I--” Vilkas stammered. Truthfully they hadn’t discussed it yet. “I don’t know why you’d assume--”

“I think it’s good you and Farkas were with her at High Hrothgar, and I like at least one of you to be present at Ustengrav,” the Harbinger continued. “The Companions exist in part to guide to heroes of Skyrim, and the Dragonborn is no exception.”

“I’d gladly accompany her, but she hasn’t asked me yet,” he said finally. “And she’s been quite insistent that she’s to go through Ustengrav alone.”

Kodlak sighed. “The Greybeards have their lofty ideals. The rest of us walk on soil. Go with her. Let her try it on her own. And if she needs a shield-sibling, I hope one of you will be there to intervene.”

 

When Brigida didn’t show up to that afternoon’s training session, Njada and Ria insisted they hadn’t seen her all day before exchanging a meaningful look that Vilkas tried to put out of his mind. He ran the remaining four whelps through a series of drills until the sun began to dip behind the mountains serrating the western horizon. Vilkas watched them file into Jorrvaskr for supper but didn’t follow them. He wandered down the main street of the Plains district until he saw the little house down by the weaponsmith she’d described.

Vilkas knocked tentatively, and almost turned to leave when no one answered after a few seconds. His heart leapt when Lydia opened the door. Behind the dark-haired housecarl glowed the amber light of a welcoming hearthfire. A little girl was humming to herself while stacking books on a nearby shelf. In the background, he saw Brigida and an Imperial woman positioning a large wooden table in what was shaping up to be serviceable kitchen.

“It’s Vilkas,” the housecarl announced over her shoulder.

Brigida wiped her her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Let him in,” she said, walking over to the door herself. Lydia backed up and allowed the man to enter.

“We’re not done yet,” Brigida crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s nice in here,” he smiled, looking around at the room.

She softened her stance and grabbed his hands. “Go upstairs and give me a minute to wrap up what I was doing.”

He nodded and ascended the ladder-steps that led to her room. She hadn’t bought much besides and bed and a small table, but it would do. Vilkas sat at the foot of her new mattress and was nearly finished removing his boots when he heard her footsteps approach.

“Why is Carlotta Valentia in your kitchen?” he whispered as she drew near.

Brigida grinned slyly. “Lydia’s secret lover. You can’t tell Farkas, by the way. She helped us buy furniture. The woman knows how to haggle.”

“Ysmir’s beard, half the men in Whiterun are after Carlotta.”

“Yeah,” Brigida said through a fit of laughter. “They're completely wasting their time.”

He pulled her close to him and they fell into bed together. The smell of her skin, the feeling of her body in his arms--it soothed him in a way no night of hunting or boozing or whoring ever could. Vilkas knew he should be more wary of how good she made him feel; he was a lycan and wolves mate for life. The man might remain an unmoored and intemperate soul, but soon the beast will want only her. He saw it happen to Skjor.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

He kissed her forehead softly. “Kodlak was asking, when are we going to Ustengrav?”

“You’re going?” she asked, her dark brows knitting together.

“Well, I assumed,” he said, rolling on his back. “But if you don’t want me to--”

“Of course I want you there,” she said impatiently, resting her head on his chest. “I'm giving you a hard time. We'll go next week.”


	19. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ustengrav, finally! Thanks for reading :D

“Talos of Atmora, hear my prayer,” Brigida whispered, her knees pressed into the ice-cold stonework. Above her, a harsh wind whistled through the Gildergreen’s barren branches. It was before dawn; all of Whiterun was still asleep. Her fingertips prickled in the numbing cold as she arranged gold coins and blue mountain flowers at the foot of the shrine.

“Show grace upon this mortal soul who follows unworthy in your footsteps, and bestow upon me your blessings.” She felt a wave of warm magicka flow towards her as she knelt her head. “I seek to walk the Path of the Dragonborn,” she breathed. “And I’m going to need your help if I don’t want to get killed.” Brigida looked up to the towering statue behind the shrine. Talos as Ysmir, Dragon of the North. From the corner of her eye, she could see Vilkas descending the stairs in front of Jorrvaskr. She stood up, brushing pebbles and frost from her breeches.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked cautiously, pausing on the penultimate step.

She shook her head, “No, I was finished anyway.”

It was the first of Frostfall, and she could see her breath as they walked through the plaza. Vilkas cleared his throat, “I didn’t know you prayed to Talos.”

“My Ma’s half-Imperial. I was raised to worship the Divines,” she said. “The Stormcloaks might be surprised to know they aren’t the only ones who revere the Ninth. There are spiritual cults all across the Niben, and plenty dedicated to Tiber Septim.”

“Tiber Septim was a prick,” Vilkas opined to which Brigida rolled her eyes ostentatiously. “But, Farkas and I were raised on the Old Gods and, well, Talos is mostly Ysmir who is mostly Shor.”

“What kind of Northern nonsense,” she muttered, furrowing her brows.

He shrugged, but neither continued the conversation any further as they approached the front door of Breezehome. Lydia was sitting near the hearth, a mug of tea in her armored hands. The house was dim and quiet.

“Good,” Brigida said, looking around the room. “You look ready to go.”

“Of course, my thane,” the housecarl replied, taking a final sip. “Stable boy should be waiting for us to pick up the horses. We’ll be on the Imperial highway by sunrise.”

 

The road to Morthal was a cold, damp, exhausting slog. An indecisive blend of rain and snow hindered their first day of travel. The second took them through a narrow mountain pass, gales howling around them as they descended upon Hjaalmarch. They were in the marshes by dusk, the lanterns of Morthal blinking in the distance. By the time they checked into the inn, the barkeep looked like he was ready to close up shop, offering only cheese and bread for supper.

The horses, thoroughly tired from two fast-paced days of riding, were left to rest at the town stable; the three warriors walked all morning through rocky hills and frosted bogs outside Morthal. Brigida’s map led them to a deceptively simple earthen burial mound with steps leading down to a cairn.

She handed most of her gear to Lydia, taking only her weapons, a quiver of arrows, and a small leather pack for a few potions and a waterskin. Vilkas tried to squeeze her hand protectively before she walked down the stairs. “Don’t follow me,” she warned him.

“I won’t,” he lied.

 

The front of the cairn, like so many burial chambers in Skyrim, had already been picked over by bandits. Urns overturned, draugr crumpled on the ground, iron arrows in their skulls. Brigida was already impatient for a fight when she passed through a final ransacked hall of burial goods and heard the distant bone-rattling of the undead. Her fingers fluttered to her blades as she crept deeper into the tomb. A pair of draugr stumbled from their coffins, grasping for their ancient weapons.

She leapt forward and slashed her twin blades at the undead, then kicked at the draugr on the left, knocking it off-balance. Turning to the draugr on the right, Brigida parried a blow from its war axe with her blades. The draugr attempted to bash her with its shield, but she dug her heels into the crumbled stone beneath her with nary a flinch. It was nothing compared to her daily thrashing from Njada. She stepped backwards as she slashed through the draugr’s partially decomposed throat, spinning on her feet just in time to meet its counterpart and jam both of her blades into its torso.

The second half of the crypt was populated by similarly weak, poorly armored draugr, few of whom gave Brigida much trouble. She experimented with sneaking into the tombs and trying to preemptively take each draugr out with a swift steel arrow to the cranium, but found a carnal satisfaction in hacking and slashing at them with her sword and dagger. The draugr were Merethic era monstrosities and there was no guilt in bringing them to rest, only the raw thrill of combat.

Brigida ran a final bit of healing magic over her body as she approached a tall, heavy iron door at the end of a winding stone corridor. The door was cool to the touch, and a crisp breeze wrapped around her as she pushed it open. The carved stone of the burial crypt gave way to loamy ground floor and the irregular walls of a natural cave. Brigida followed a pool of light streaming through a lattice of decrepit vines. She peeked through them to see a massive underground cavern adorned with conifers and hanging moss, streams rushing far below, natural light shining down from an opening in the ceiling. Her eyes traced a series of stone walkways crisscrossing the cave, gulping when she saw how few of them were fully intact.

 

“It’s too soon,” the housecarl said, firm but gentle. “Way too soon.”

Vilkas scowled but suspected she was right. It had only been a couple hours since Brigida had entered the cairn, and he and Lydia had privately decided they would wait until nightfall until they considered intervening with the trial. Still, he couldn’t seem to do anything but pace the worn soil between their campfire and the edge of the burial mound.

The hours felt like weeks that day, even as Lydia tried to distract him with tea and bread and books. Every gust of wind, every chirping insect made his eyes dart back to the cairn’s door, hoping to see her face emerge, feeling his heart sink every time she didn’t. Vilkas shoved his hands into the pockets of his jerkin, eyes on the horizon. Sunset couldn’t come soon enough.

 

The undead in the depths of the cavern were tougher than their predecessors, forcing Brigida to be more strategic in her approach, perching on the elevated walkways and thinning their numbers with her bow until she could traverse the cavern safely. She used her own agility and an occasional well-placed Whirlwind Sprint to navigate the crumbling paths that took her to the floor of the cavern. Here she found another ancient wall of Dovazhul carvings with another glowing word that called out to her. She managed to stay on her feet this time as the word entered her consciousness. _Feim._

Brigida followed the final stone path to a series of pressure plates leading to several iron gates. A bit of experimentation revealed that standing on a plate opened its corresponding gate, but the gates closed too quickly to sprint under them in time. She cursed under her breath, wishing she’d brought a pickaxe so she could put a few hunks of rock over the plates and weigh them down.

 _The thu’um_ , Brigida thought as she squinted at the puzzle before her. _They want you to use the thu’um._

She lined up her feet before the first plate, carefully aiming her body at the gates. _“Wuld!”_ she shouted, feeling the air rush past her ears, her feet zipping across the pressure plates, watching the gates open before her like a wave. And then close.

Her face collided with the grated metal first, the rest of her body slamming into it a split second later, the force knocking her backwards and off her feet. Brigida slowly opened her right eye, not daring to open the left as she could feel warm blood pooling in the socket. She sat up, tapping the bridge of her nose, which, along with a gash on her forehead, was now bleeding considerably. Keeping her head straight, Brigida pawed her her bag of potions, pulling out a handful of vials. She drank both a health and a magicka potion in rapid succession, using the extra mana to stanch the wounds on her face.

 

Lydia was only barely able to suppress a laugh that afternoon when Vilkas declared for the twentieth time that it was “getting a bit late” and that he should “probably check out that cairn soon.” Though she’d hardly moved from their camp, it had been an exhausting day. When the Nord guard had accepted the post as housecarl, she hadn’t anticipated managing her Thane’s overly emotional Companion paramour would be part of her duties.

“Just go,” Lydia sighed. “It’s obvious you want to.”

Vilkas arched a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me to wait?”

“Yes. You ask to go in the tomb, and I tell you to wait. Then you scowl and pace around angrily until you forget what I told you fifteen minutes prior and ask again,” Lydia said blankly, poking the campfire with a stick.

Vilkas narrowed his eyes, and for a moment Lydia thought he might yell at her. But instead his shoulders sank, and the Companion looked oddly vulnerable. “Apologies. I know I’m obnoxious,” he mumbled. “Er, not that it makes it okay. I just--I’ve been fighting alongside her for a while now, and she still has a lot of weak points. She shouldn’t be alone in there.”

“She’s all offense,” the housecarl nodded in agreement. “But that healing magick Danica taught her should help.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Vilkas stopped pacing and crossed his arms.

 _Dibella’s tits,_ she thought. _Is that supposed to be a secret too?_

“Housecarl,” he demanded, “what’s this about healing spells?”

“She’s been going to the temple of Kynareth and learning a bit of Restoration. Nothing to worry about,” Lydia added hastily.

“She shouldn’t be relying on magick,” Vilkas frowned and stared longingly at the cairn.

Lydia doubted there was anything she could say to dissuade him.

 

After experimenting with standing and walking across the pressure plates for nearly an hour, Brigida concluded that the only possible way to the other side would be to run across the plates as swiftly as possible and use Whirlwind Sprint at the last second to pass through the gates. She’d have one chance to get the timing right; a single false step and she’d be impaled on an iron spike or worse--trapped between two gates until she succumbed to starvation.

With visions of her own grisly death, Brigida stood once more behind the row of pressure plates. As she ran over them, she watch the gates rise in rapid succession, one after the other. The Whirlwind Sprint carried her through the tunnel, and she felt the metal gates slam shut behind her. Once she realized she was not impaled, not trapped, but standing safely on the other side of the puzzle, she fell to her knees and began to laugh uncontrollably. Her lips were salty with sweat or tears or blood, her hands shaking with adrenaline.

She continued up the staircase in front of her, to a room with intricate swirling patterns carved into the floor. Tentatively, she pressed her foot on to the stone and a wall of fire immediately ignited in front of her, singeing her leather boot. After a brief interlude of trilingual vulgarity, Brigida edged up to the fire-trap floor, ready to use the thu’um again. She hoped that the speed of the _Wuld_ shout would be enough to carry her across the room without her burning alive, though she could not be sure until she tried it. For good measure, she drank a fire resistance potion beforehand.

As she felt the thu’um propel her forward, Brigida willed herself to not look back at the wave of flames roaring behind her. She crash landed at the other end of the chamber, grateful that only her hair was on fire.

 

Vilkas sniffed the air as he walked through Ustengrav; despite the heavy dust and the stench of undead, he could sense Brigida. Curiously, he could smell another human too. Someone else had been in the tomb, perhaps a few weeks before.

He followed the scent to a burial chamber filled with urns, all of which had been ransacked. Brigida hadn’t been in here, but the other human had. His pale eyes scanned the room, focusing on an uneven patch of wall. Vilkas traced his fingers over the wall, locating an irregular ridge leaking cool air into the chamber. It had to be a secret door.

He used his pickaxe to pry the the ridge open, using all his strength to pull the door down. His shoulders burned as he heard a mechanism in the door snap, and the passage opened. Vilkas had to duck as he entered the small, frigid tunnel and followed it down below the cairn.

The tunnel led to a grand tomb, likely the final resting place of Jurgen Windcaller. Pools of cyan water lined the polished stone chamber, which glowed with ancient magelight. A sarcophagus was elevated at the center of the room, surrounded with lavish burial goods. Vilkas approached the coffin, inspecting an ornate platform rising from its carved surface.

A roll of parchment sat where the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller should have been. Vilkas clenched his jaw as he read the note. His mind raced with possibilities of who might have intercepted the artifact and why they could have done it, and no explanation seemed good.

_Dragonborn--_

_I need to speak with you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I’ll meet you._

_\--A Friend_

The ground beneath him began to tremble as four great iron dragon heads rose from the pools of water. Vilkas instinctively drew his greatsword, his gaze fixing upon a moving shadow at the other end of the chamber.

 _Whoosh._ Vilkas dodged sideways, raising his blade as an arrow came hurtling toward his face. Across from him, bow drawn and pointed at his head, caked in sweat and dried blood, hair half-singed and wild, stood Brigida.

“Oy, don’t shoot!” he yelled, pulling off his helmet. “It’s me.”

“Vilkas?” she cried, dropping her bow on the floor and running across the room. She looked confused and overwhelmed. “Why are you--? I don’t know if I should hit you or kiss you right now.”

“You already tried to shoot me in the head,” he replied.

“Fucking Oblivion, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting--” she said breathlessly. “What are you doing down here?”

“I was--” Vilkas stammered. “You were down here for a long time, and I thought you might need some help.”

Brigida huffed. “Well, looks like you thought wrong.”

He studied the burn marks on her arms, the nasty gash across her forehead. “Right, I suppose technically you survived the trial.”

“This?” she asked, pointed at the wound on her face. “I didn’t even get this from a draugr, you know. A metal gate did that to me.”

“I wouldn’t include that detail in the bardic retelling of your heroic deeds, Bri.”

She grinned broadly. “I feel like I should be mad at you for coming down here.”

“But you’re not,” he said hopefully.

“You were worried about me,” she teased, and he averted his gaze. “Anyway,” Brigida’s voice echoed across the hall as she turned to retrieve her bow, “where’s the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller?”


	20. Former Corsair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Search for the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Angst warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the wait, y'all. I feel like I say that with every chapter, but it's just a tough time of year for me to find time to write. Hopefully by June or July, I should be back to updating once a week again. Thanks for all your patience, my lovely readers!

_5 Frostfall 4E 201_

_Kynesgrove, Eastmarch_

 

_Captain Ralof Storm-Hammer,_

 

_I’ve certainly witnessed the dragon previously reported. As our soldiers noted, the beast mostly flies around the foothills of the Velothi mountains and rarely comes near the town. When it does, the dragon circles the area a few times and then returns to its perch. Thankfully, it has yet to attack the town or any nearby farms._

_Thyra believes he’s biding his time, but for what, we cannot possibly know._

_In the meantime, we’ve been trying to use our skills as officers to improve loyalty here in Kynesgrove and remind the common folk why they chose to align themselves with Jarl Ulfric and not the Empire. You were right to have concerns about morale; the war effort has impoverished a lot of families and cost too many lives. I’ve instructed the soldiers to help take in the harvest, especially for the families who’ve given up their strongest sons and daughters to our cause. Thyra offers a free healing clinic for the townsfolk and spreads the word of Nine each day._

 

_Talos with you,_

_Scout-Officer Ludo Summer-Blade_

 

“They should have come back to Whiterun first,” Skjor shook his head.

“That’s what Vilkas wanted to do,” Lydia said. “It was my Thane who wanted to go straight to Riverwood. She told him to come back here and tell you what she was doing. He refused to leave her side. So they sent me instead,” the housecarl said, trying to conceal her annoyance.

“What tavern was it, you said?” the Harbinger asked, combing his index finger through his snowy beard.

“The Sleeping Giant Inn, sir,” Lydia said with a respectful bow.

“Thank you, Lydia. You’ve done well,” Kodlak said, dismissing the housecarl from his office before turning to Skjor. “Isn’t that Delphine’s inn?”

 

Delphine recognized her instantly. The Dragonborn was the same tattooed Nord girl who had delivered the Dragonstone to Farengar, the same skittish traveller who’d wandered into her tavern the day of the Helgen attack. This was Brigida Summer-Blade, Companion and Thane. She was grimy from the road, her armor spattered in blood and dirt. Delphine smirked as her eyes studied the obvious corsair insignia on the girl’s left forearm. The Breton woman wondered if anyone back in Whiterun knew their noble heroine was really a criminal.

“I’d like to rent the attic room,” the Dragonborn asked quietly, approaching the bar. A steel-plated dark-haired man hovered behind her, glowering icily at Delphine. She was certain he was a Companion--one of those twins, Farkas or Vilkas.

“Attic room, eh? We haven’t got one, but I think I might know what you’re looking for,” Delphine said coyly, beckoning for the Nord woman to follow her. “Right this way.”

To her dismay, both Nords accompanied her into the room, which was one of the bigger, nicer suites at the inn, one with its own fireplace and a proper feather-stuffed mattress. Delphine watched the two warriors tense up as she shut the door behind them. She knelt down to open the lock on a trunk at the foot of the bed, producing a bundled wool blanket which she unwrapped gingerly.

“Looking for this?” Delphine asked as she produced the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, a dark, ancient warhorn that looked to be carved from some kind of tusk, maybe mammoth or horker. “I was hoping I could speak with you alone, Dragonborn,” she added as Brigida snatched the horn from her arms.

“Vilkas is my shield-brother,” she snapped. “He goes where I go.”

“Very well,” Delphine said stiffly. “So you’re her, then. I’ll be honest, I never expected the Dragonborn to be a corsair.”

“How-- _former_ corsair,” she corrected, her face suddenly flushing, her right hand grabbing her left wrist. “You must be from High Rock.”

A lightning-brief look of shock that flashed across Vilkas’s face, disappearing just as quickly into his otherwise neutral gaze. As a Blade, Delphine was trained to notice these thing. “Wayrest, unfortunately,” the Breton said dryly.

“Not my favorite place either,” the Dragonborn muttered and cleared her throat. “So who in Oblivion are you really and why did you take the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller?”

“My name is Delphine,” she explained. “Sorry about the cloak and dagger, but I had to find a way to meet you, and circumstances made it hard to contact you directly. I’ll explain more in due time, but--”

“And why did you have to meet me, exactly?” the Dragonborn interrupted.

“I have information about the dragons that I think you’ll find useful.”

“I’m listening,” Brigida said, crossing her arms impatiently over her torso.

“I can’t tell you everything now. Not yet. But I… just follow me.” Delphine turned to a large wardrobe that stood against the wall. She dislodged a panel at the back, revealing the passage to a small, secret room where Delphine had kept her katanas, her armor, her old Blades books and records, and more recently, research on the return of the dragons. She led the two Nords to a table at the center of the room, showing them what she and Farengar had been working on.

“This is a map of every dragon burial mound in Skyrim. Alduin is using his powers to resurrect dead dragons across the countryside. He started in Helgen,” she said, tracing her index finger along the World-Eater’s route, “then spent a few weeks gathering strength before he raised Mirmulnir--the dragon you fought in Whiterun. Recently he’s been spotted in the foothills near Kynesgrove, and this,” she pointed to a spot on far northeast of the map, “dragon burial mound.”

“How do you know all this?” Brigida implored. Her eyes were wide, an eerie golden glint to them.

“In due time, Dragonborn,” Delphine repeated, knowing it was an unsatisfactory response. “I have so much more to tell you, but I need to know for certain that you’re the real thing. Come to Kynesgrove with me. We’ll fight the dragon together, and I can see your abilities in person.”

“If you want to see me shout, I’d be happy to demonstrate for you,” Brigida said wryly.

“Ulfric Stormcloak can shout, doesn’t make him Dragonborn. I heard you can absorb a dragon’s soul. If that’s true, then I need to see it for myself.”

“It is true.”

“Then come to Kynesgrove with me! If not for me, then for the innocent people living in that village. You’re the only one who can permanently fell a dragon.”

“Why should I trust you if you won’t trust me?”

“Tell me, Dragonborn. Were you satisfied with the guidance and direction provided for you by the Greybeards?”

Brigida said nothing, squaring her jaw in the awkward silence that followed.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Delphine said sweetly. It was time to play her final card. “Alduin is back, and he’s slowly resurrecting his brothers. And if you’re really the Dragonborn--”

“I am,” Brigida interjected.

“--Then it is your duty, your destiny, to lead the fight against them. Come to Kynesgrove.”

“I need to think about it,” she shrugged, almost apologetically.

“Very well. I’ll take my leave now, Dragonborn. You rented the room, so please make yourself at home and think it over. I’ll be leaving for Eastmarch tomorrow morning. Hopefully you’ll join me in Kynesgrove soon.”

 

“The audacity of that woman,” Brigida exhaled as soon as Delphine left the room. She shot a commiserating look at Vilkas, and was taken aback to see his pale grey eyes glaring coldly at her.

“When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she asked, but as soon as the words left her mouth she knew exactly what he meant. She could kill Delphine. “Vilkas, listen…”

“You were a corsair? I think that’s something Kodlak and the other Companions ought to know.” His tone was calm though anger twitched in his face.

“I told Skjor and he said--”

“You told Skjor?” Vilkas threw his hands up incredulously.

“And he said it wasn’t a big deal,” she raised her voice over his.

“You told Skjor and you didn’t tell me. Also, yes, it is a very big fucking deal that you were a fucking corsair.”

“Maybe I didn’t tell you because I knew you would react this way.”

“My apologies that I don’t want criminals representing one of Skyrim’s oldest, most venerated institutions,” Vilkas seethed, his nostrils flaring. “People spend years training for the honor of joining our ranks. You stumbled into Whiterun and got dragged into Jorrvaskr by Aela--”

“So that’s why you were such a dickhead to me when we first met.”

“I--what?”

“You didn’t think I deserved to be a Companion,” she said quietly. He averted his gaze in shame. “You still don’t.”

“I can’t answer that,” he muttered bitterly, looking at his feet. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m the same person, Vilkas. I never lied to you,” she pleaded, knowing that too was a lie. “There’s just some things about my past you didn’t know.”

He scoffed. “That’s a fucking understatement. You know, I’ve half a mind to ride back to Whiterun right now.”

“Vilkas, don’t.” She reached out for his hand which he swiftly retracted.

“Then tell me the truth,” he said through his teeth.

Brigida swallowed hard and closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to let him. Maybe she could run away again. Somewhere far, like Valenwood. No, she couldn’t live in a tree and drink meat juice.

And when she opened her eyes she was still in Delphine’s odd basement chamber, and so was Vilkas. Brigida sat at the table with the map of the dragon burial sites, laughing darkly as she pushed it away from her.

She looked back at Vilkas, his expression softer now. “I’m still the Dragonborn,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, suddenly a bit sheepish.

She stood up, her back turned to him. Her fists were clenched, her voice a bit shaky. “But I understand why you’re upset. I’m going to go upstairs and change out of my armor and get a bottle of wine. And when I come back, I will tell you everything.”

 

Brigida left Falkreath in 191 at the age of sixteen, and after a few months of traveling, hitching rides with various caravans, she arrived in Bravil, home of her mother’s clan. The Terenti were a cadet branch of the ruling Terentius family, and made their living in ravaged, ruinous post-war Bravil by turning a blind eye and often facilitating local criminal groups, including the city’s expansive drug trade. Through her cousins, Brigida encountered illicit contraband and unsavory characters with regularity. One of these individuals was a corsair princeling from Daggerfall named Mathys Renier.

Years later, she was living in Rimmen, and encountered Renier again. When they’d met the first time Brigida had been a teenager and Mathys was married; he’d paid her little attention. Now she was twenty-one, he was divorced, and they were both living in the city’s famed Akaviri Quarter. She managed a tavern that was owned by the Elsweyr Syndicate. He bought large quantities of the moon sugar from those same Khajiit, and shipped it off through corsair ships docked in Arenthia.

It had started small. Lying to guards. Hiding coin and drugs in her clothes. Riding alongside him as he transported illegal quantities of moon sugar over the Valenwood border, knowing the guards were less likely to search the wagon if they looked like a married couple. It was Mathys who taught her how to use a blade--the Breton favored poisoned daggers--although his real talent, Illusion magick, he kept to himself.

They were stopped by Thalmor on a warm winter night in 197, somewhere north of Dune. That was her first kill, a goldskin pelted with arrows on a moonlit desert.

“Did you throw up?” Vilkas asked. “I threw up.”

“I did,” she said with a hollow laugh.

They left the Dominion shortly after that incident, moving back to Renier’s native Daggerfall. With the increase in Thalmor pressure, the Iliac Bay Corsairs were beginning to rely upon moon sugar supplies grown in Hammerfell, and Mathys’s father, the so-called Don of Daggerfall, summoned him home. They rode an actual pirate ship from Arenthia to High Rock, where Brigida received the first of her corsair tattoos, the small anchor on her inner forearm.

In Daggerfall, she earned her keep hiding, transporting and collecting payment on shipments of skooma and other smuggled or otherwise pirated goods brought in by the corsair ships. She sold drugs to drug dealers and stolen supplies to shady merchants. With her blade skills and her knack for intimidation, Brigida developed a reputation for always getting her money. “I did bad things to people,” she admitted. “I don’t know if it makes it better that most of those people were lying, cheating criminals themselves.” She paused and poured herself a second glass of wine.

“But I saw innocents get hurt, and I did nothing,” she continued. “And I saw what the skooma trade did to Daggerfall, and I did nothing. The truth is, most of the time I liked what I did. I was good at it. I made a lot of money and had a lot of free time.”

“So, why’d you leave?”

“Mathys,” she said cryptically. “We were supposed to get married in the spring of year 200, but I couldn’t do it. He was... not a good man. Manipulative, cruel, constantly unfaithful. Suppose I should have realized that sooner. Anyway, the only way to leave him was to leave the corsairs. An old friend from Rimmen was doing business in the bay, and gave me an opportunity to get out.”

She had to fight her way out of Daggerfall. The Corsair Code states that anyone who leaves their crew can be actively hunted down for up to a year. She fled High Rock under the protection of the Elsweyr Syndicate, and repaid the Khajiit by working as a wagon driver for the caravans in Upper Craglorn and Bruma County. As her year of protection began to expire, her Khajiit superior encouraged her to take on a riskier smuggling job in southern Skyrim.

“And that’s how I ended up in Helgen, and the rest you know,” she said with finality, taking a large sip from her wine.

“You still mad at me?” she asked after a long beat of silence.

“A little,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “You’ve got dangerous enemies. You could bring a lot of trouble to Jorrvaskr. And I want to be very clear. If I’d known this about you when you first tried to join up, I would have strongly recommended to Kodlak that we turn you away.”

“Vilkas, I--”

He held his hand up to quiet her objections. “But you’re here now aren’t you? You’ve been a good shield-sister. And you’re the Dragonborn. Even if you were still a criminal, we’d be obliged to assist you. It’s in everyone’s best interest that you stay in the Companions.”

She nodded, looking across the room out of the corner of her eye. They were glassy, like she was holding back tears.

Vilkas suppressed the part of himself that wanted the brush the hair out of her face, to tell her everything would be okay. It was the wolf in him that wanted to forgive her and go back to the way things were. He reckoned the sensible thing to do would be to break it off with her right then. No more stolen weekends running jobs together, no more clandestine afternoons in Breezehome. But then he felt his stomach turn at the thought of leaving her. Was the beast within him stirring?

“Are you going to stay here tonight? Or go back to Whiterun.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’ll stay if you want me to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, credit to [thelightofmorning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/) from whom I stole the honor-name "Ralof Storm-Hammer" and whose fics you should definitely read.
> 
> And.... 20 Chapters, 50K words. I've never gotten this far in a story, ever. Thanks to all my readers, especially those who give kudos or leave comments. It really does motivate me to continue on.


	21. Sleeping Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter, but the next one will be on the longer side.
> 
> Also it's my birthday? lol

Aela shifted to her human form in midst of a grove of trees near the river, crouching beneath the foliage to slip back into her clothes. She’d been able to run from Whiterun to Riverwood overnight thanks to the speed and endurance afforded by the beast form. She mouthed words of silent gratitude to Hircine as she tied her ancient Nordic cuirass around her chest.

The Sleeping Giant Inn was empty save for its proprietor, a middle-aged Breton woman leaning against the bar. Skjor and Kodlak had known the woman during the war, when she was Blade known for obtaining information in untraditional ways. Neither man trusted Delphine and thus Aela found herself in Riverwood, checking in on her two wayward shield-siblings.

“Welcome traveller,” the innkeeper said cheerfully. “Can I get you anything this morning?”

“I’m looking for my friends,” Aela said. “A tattooed woman with light brown hair and hazel eyes, and a dark-haired man carrying a steel greatsword on his back.”

Delphine’s face fell. “You’re with the Companions?”

“I am. Kodlak Whitemane sends his regards. Care to explain why you tricked my shield-sister into paying you a visit?”

The Breton woman narrowed her eyes. “I intend your sister no harm. I already explained myself to her, and I don’t owe you anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” Aela muttered blithely. “So what rooms are they in?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Delphine replied, placing her hands on her hips with finality. “I don’t give out my patrons’ information.”

“Fine,” Aela shrugged. “I suppose I’ll just sit here and wait for them to wake up.” The Huntress gave a cold smile to Delphine and perched herself regally upon a barstool. “And bring some tea and porridge in the meantime, could you?”

Delphine laughed haughtily. “Of course. You must be tired after your journey down here.”

 

Vilkas woke up fully clothed, above the covers. Their room glowed with mid-morning light. Brigida was buried under linen sheets and wool blankets, still fast asleep. Her hair, now uneven from where she’d chopped off the singed ends, had formed a tangled nest below her head. Her lips were chapped and stained burgundy. She’d dozed off long before him, having finished most of a bottle of wine on an empty stomach, and Vilkas figured she’d probably be a right daedra when she woke.

He washed up and dressed for the day, not knowing if they’d be leaving for Kynesgrove or returning to Whiterun. He was arranging the supplies in his pack when Brigida scrambled from the bed and rushed across the room to kneel beside an empty bucket. The girl wretched and an acrid smell filled the room. Vilkas appeared at her side, sweeping her long hair from over her shoulders and holding it at the nape of her neck.

“Vilkas,” she groaned miserably. “You don’t have to.”

He frowned at her. “You need to get your shit together,” he said. “We should be heading back to Jorrvaskr or up to Kynesgrove by now.” She grimaced at him before ducking her head back into the bucket. “Slow down or you’ll end up like Torvar.”

“You’re one to talk,” she spat, wiping her mouth with the corner of a washrag.

“I might end a long day with ale or three, but I know when to turn in for the night,” Vilkas said. “Well, most of the time. I’m certainly not the one puking my brains out while a dragon sizes up Eastmarch.”

She drew her head up and sat back on her heels, swatting at his wrist to get his hand out of her hair. “You know what?” she said. “You’re right.”

Vilkas sputtered, unsure of how to reply.

“I don’t know how to deal with this whole Dragonborn thing,” she said, rubbing her hands across her flushed face, “but drinking like a teenager at a Saturalia party is clearly not working.”

“I feel like there’s a story here…”

“And I’ll tell it to you later, it’s good.” Brigida laughed, and he couldn’t tell if she was joking.

Vilkas put his hand on her shoulder tentatively, relieved when she didn’t move away. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

He retrieved a vial of health potion and a full waterskin from his pack. “Drink these and go lay down,” he said.

When she climbed back into bed, he pulled the covers neatly over her chest and shoulders. “Why are you’re being nice to me? I thought you were mad,” she pouted.

“Right now, you’re too pathetic for me to stay angry with you,” he smirked.

“Jackass,” she said, though she was smiling.

“We’ll talk about it more later,” he said, now more serious. He started to back away, walking towards the doorway. “In the meantime, I’ll fetch more water, something for us to eat.”

“Hey, Vilkas?” she stopped him. “Tell Delphine we’ll meet her in Kynesgrove.”

He promised her he would and entered the main hall to find the innkeeper standing at the bar in an animated conversation about arrow fletchings with a certain red-haired archer.

“What are you doing here, sister?” he barked, his eyes widening as he crossed the hall in long strides.

Aela gave him a sunny grin and waved. “Brother, there you are! I need to talk to you and--Where’s the whelp?”

“Indisposed at the moment.”

Aela snorted, blowing a lock of auburn hair from her face. “Didn’t get much sleep last then?”

“Not for the reasons you’re thinking,” he replied tersely, rolling his eyes.

Delphine snorted, clearly enjoying the exchange. “Excuse us for a moment,” Aela said to the Breton woman, and she grabbed Vilkas by the forearm and pulled him across the room.

“Kodlak reckons that one’s not to be trusted,” the Huntress hissed as she and Vilkas huddled together in a corner at the opposite end of the tavern.

“Delphine? Why?” Vilkas asked, resisting the urge to look back at her.

“Knew her in the war, said she’s dishonest and manipulative. What does she want?”

“She claims there’s a dragon that’s about to attack Kynesgrove. The evidence is convincing. Thing is, she wants to tag along and watch the fight. Says she can tell us even more about the dragons once she sees that Brigida can really absorb its soul.”

Aela’s eyes went silver as she furrowed her brow in suspicion. “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either,” Vilkas whispered, “but we have do something about that dragon in Kynesgrove regardless.”

“You two need to get your asses back to Whiterun so we can make a plan.”

 

Vilkas assured Delphine they’d meet her in Kynesgrove in four days time, and once Brigida emerged from bed, the three Companions returned to Whiterun. It was a quiet trip; with Aela around, Vilkas and Brigida had no opportunity to discuss the events of the previous night. Instead, they were slow and exhausted, and it was hours past sunset when they passed through the doors of Jorrvaskr. Skjor seemed annoyed that they’d gone straight to Riverwood, but Kodlak merely smiled and invited them into his office.

Brigida recounted the events at Ustengrav and Riverwood, leaving out the bit where Vilkas wandered into Jurgen Windcaller’s burial chamber and she nearly shot him in the face.

“Harbinger, Aela said you had reason to believe Delphine can’t be trusted,” she said tentatively after wrapping up her story.

Kodlak frowned thoughtfully. “Yes, well. Delphine was a Blade before and during the Great War. After the Thalmor purges, she’s one of only handful left in Tamriel. Her skills are numerous and her intelligence is reliable.”

“But?” Vilkas tapped his fingers impatiently on his bicep.

Kodlak’s expression darkened. “For the Blades, the ends always justify the means. Delphine will manipulate, cheat, and lie until she gets her way. If it serves her purposes, she will readily betray you.”

“She’s a Blade? Explains why she’s so interested in dragons,” Vilkas mused, “and the Dragonborn.”

“Hang on,” Brigida said. “If she’s a Blade and I’m Dragonborn, isn’t she supposed to answer to me?”

“In theory. But Delphine is very cunning. She can find ways to exert her will while still acting as Dragonguard,” Kodlak explained. “I’m not saying don’t collaborate with her. But I urge you to keep her at arm’s length. And for Divines’ sake, don’t confide in the woman. Information is another form of currency to a Blade.”

Kodlak shifted the conversation to Kynesgrove and the prospect of a second dragon fight. “I’m sure all of your shield-siblings would be eager to accompany you and do battle against a dragon, but with all this Silver Hand business, I’ll need a few to stay behind. At least one Circle member other than Skjor and a couple of whelps too.”

“We should take Aela,” Vilkas said, turning to Brigida. “We’ll need every good archer we can get.”

“You’re right, but Farkas will be disappointed,” she replied.

The Harbinger chuckled, his blue-grey eyes twinkling. “Or _you_ could stay here, Vilkas.”

“No!” Brigida insisted.

Vilkas coughed loudly. “If you need me to stay at Jorrvaskr, I will, Harbinger. But I’d prefer to go to Kynesgrove.”

“It’s up to the Dragonborn,” Kodlak replied mildly, an amused look on his face as he turned to Brigida. “You may take Vilkas, Aela, and two whelps, my girl.”

“Njada,” she mused. “And maybe Athis.”

“He might not want to go to Eastmarch,” Vilkas said. “Stormcloaks.”

“Ria if Athis doesn’t want to go. If he does, we’ll kick anyone’s ass who’s mean to him,” she said. “Er, sorry, sir.”

“Quite all right,” the Harbinger nodded and dismissed them.

The hallway outside Kodlak’s chambers was cool, dim, and empty. Their slow, shuffling footsteps echoed across the stonework. “I’m so tired,” Vilkas announced. “I guess I’ll go to bed soon.”

“Me too,” she replied in a hushed tone. “I’ll probably just go back to the whelp room.”

They both stopped, and Vilkas regarded her for moment, searching her face for some sign that she wanted to go back to his room with him. But she was stony and impassive and her eyes were hard. Maybe a little time apart could be a good thing. “Right,” he said, turning on his heel. As he reached the door to his room, he looked over to see if she was still there, but she had already gone.

 

Brigida slept in the whelp room that night, tossing and turning; she was still exhausted come morning and newly grateful that they were spending even a single day in Whiterun to rest up and replenish their supplies. After dragging herself out of bed, she left her weapons at the forge with Thorald Grey-Mane who excitedly shared a set of blueprints for a crossbow he’d come across.

“From High Rock,” the platinum-haired smith explained. “My only regret is that I can’t get it made before you go fight that dragon. I can only work on it when Da’s not around, though.”

After that, she accompanied Ria into to town for a bath and trip to the market. Ria was loquacious to a fault, but today Brigida found the girl’s constant small talk to be a welcome distraction. They returned to Jorrvaskr for a midday meal, and Brigida was almost relaxed until she saw Vilkas at the table, eating with his brother. She sat next to him, quietly acknowledging the twins with a small wave.

“I talked to Njada and Athis, and they’re both in,” he said.

“Still mad that I gotta stay here,” Farkas said jovially.

“Work on your archery skills,” his brother quipped.

“Archery, right,” Farkas said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, his glacial eyes rolling. “‘Cause everyone knows that’s why _you_ get to go.”

They both shushed the larger twin, though between Aela’s visit to Riverwood and Kodlak’s amused expression the night before, Brigida suspected half of Jorrvaskr already knew about her and Vilkas.

“Take a walk with me?” he asked, finishing up what was breakfast for him and lunch for everyone else.

She agreed, knowing it might be last chance for them to be alone for the next week. He led her through the city, out the gates, and down the old cobblestone road. They settled on a bluff near the river, the sun keeping her wool cloak warm in spite of the autumnal chill in the air. There was a moment of silence as they both watched the rushing water glinting in the light of day.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” she said.

He looked at her, the tiniest smile pulling at his lips. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t.”

“So,” she pursed her lips. “Are we good?”

Vilkas nodded, squinting across the river. “Keep your past in the past, Brigida, and we won’t have a problem.”

It wasn’t the answer she wanted, but it was better than she’d expected. Still, she might need to remind Ysolda to keep her lips tight about that last job. “Well, good,” she exhaled. “Because I honestly had trouble sleeping without you thrashing about next to me.”

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he said. “Bed was too hot without you stealing all the blankets.”

“We'll have to stay in separate tents on the road Kynesgrove, you know.”

Vilkas cursed under his breath and fell backwards into the grass. Brigida leaned on her forearm, peering over him. She brushed a lock of his dark hair from his face. “Or we could just stop trying to keep this a secret.”

“No.” He shook his head and looped his arm under hers, running his fingers along her back. “Not yet, okay?” he added upon seeing the disappointed look on her face. She swung her leg over his hips so that she was sitting on his lap.

“Have it your way,” she said, leaning forward.

Vilkas moaned appreciatively as she trailed kisses along his jawline and neck. “Trying to make me to regret my decision?”

“Is it working?” she asked quietly against his ear. He ran his hand along the back of her head.

“Keep going and maybe you’ll find out.”


End file.
